THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SOUTHLAND  WRITERS 


SOUTHLAND  WRITERS, 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  SKETCHES 


OF   THE 


LIVING  FEMALE  WRITERS  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


litli  (Extracts  from  their  Ifrnftnos. 

/I  I  *f 


BY 
IDA     RAYMOND. 

IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 
VOL.  II. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

i 

CLAXTON,  REMSEN  &  HAFFELFINGER, 

819    &    821    MARKET    STREET. 
1870. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by 
CLAXTON,   RKMSEN   A   HAFFELFINGER, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  in  and  for  the 
Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 

STEREOTYPED  BY  J.  PAGAN  4  SON.  PRINTED  BY  MOORE  BROTHKltS. 


!   CONTENTS  i 


VOLUME   II 


ALABAMA. 


PS 

s-s/ 

r/7s 


MRS.  ADELAIDE  DE  VENDEL  CHAUDRON 523 

MISS  KATE  GUMMING 525 

LAURA  S.  WEBB 527 

MRS.  ANNIE  CREIGHT  LLOYD 530 

MRS.  E.  W.  BELLAMY 531 

MISS  MARY  A.  CRUSE 548 

LILIAN  ROZELL  MESSENGER 554 

SARAH  E.  PECK 560 

JULIA  L.  KEYES 561 

AUGUSTA  J.  EVANS 56C 

I.  M.  PORTER  HENRY 584 

CATHERINE  W.  TOWLES 594 

MRS.  JULIA  SHELTON 596 

MISSISSIPPI. 

SALLIE  ADA  VANCE 609 

MRS.  MARY  STANFORD 616 

MRS.  S.  B.  COX 622 

ELIZA  POITEVENT 631 

FLORIDA. 

MARY  E.  BRYAN 645 

FANNY  E.  HERRON 669 

v 


1125368 


VI  CONTENTS    OF    VOL.    II. 

PAGE 

AUGUSTA    1>K   MIU-Y 672 

MRS.  M.  UMISE  CROSSLEY 677 

TENNESSEE. 

MI!S.  L.  VMICIXIA  FRENCH 687 

Mi:>.  ANXIE  CHAMBERS  KETCHUM 703 

MRS.  CLARA  COLES 713 

ADELIA  C.  GRAVES 722 

MRS.  MARY  E.  TOPE 723 

VIRGINIA. 

MRS.  MARGARET  J.  PRESTON 735 

MRS.  S.  A.  WEISS 750 

MRS.  CONSTANCE  CARY  HARRISON 775 

M.  J.  HAW 776 

MRS.  MARY  WILEY 777 

MISS  VIRGINIA  E.  DAVIDSON 782 

MISS  SALLIE  A.  BROCK 784 

MISS  SUE  C.  HOOPER 792 

MATILDA  S.  EDWARDS 797 

MARY  J.  B.  1TSIIUR f 799 

MARTHA  HAINES  BUTT  BENNETT 806 

MISS  SARAH  J.  C.  WHITTLESEY 803 

HELEN  G.  BEALE 809 

MRS.  CORNELIA  J.  M.  JORDAN 811 

LAURA  R.  FEWELL 819 

Mi;-.  LIZZIE  PETIT  CUTLER , 821 

NORTH    CAROLINA. 

M  \I;V  RAYAHD  CLARKE 827 

MARY  MASON 842 

CORNELIA  PHILLIPS  SPENCER 843 

FANNY  MURDAUGH  DOWNING  ...  ..  844 


CONTENTS    OF    VOL,    II.  vii 

PAGE 

MRS.  MARY  AYER  MILLER 853 

MRS.  SUSAN  J.  HANCOCK ..  855 


SOUTH    CAROLINA. 

SUE  PETIGRU  KING 861 

MRS.  CAROLINE  H.  JERVEY 866 

CAROLINE  A.  BALL 871 

MRS.  MARY  S.  B.  SHINDLER 875 

MISS  ESSIE  B.  CHEESBOROUGH 877 

MARY  SCRIMZEOUR  WHITAKER 884 

MARGARET  MAXWELL  MARTIN 892 

MRS.  CATHARINE  LADD 896 

CLARA  V.  DARGAN 898 

FADETTE 905 

ANNIE  M.  BARNWELL 912 

MARY  CAROLINE   GRISAVOLD 918 

MISS  JULIA  C.  MINTZING 922 

MARYLAND. 

ANNE  MONCURE  CRANE 931 

LYDIA  CRANE 941 

GEORGIE  A.  HULSE  McLEOD 943 

TEXAS. 

MRS.  FANNIE  A.  D.  DARDEN. 949 

MRS.  MAUD  J.  YOUNG 952 

MISS  MOLLIE  E.  MOORE ...  959 


MADAME  ADELAIDE  DE  V.  CHAUDRON. 

HIS  lady,  who  stands  unsurpassed  as  translator  of  the  now 
famous  Miihlbach  novels,  is  a  resident  (we  believe,  a  native) 
of  Mobile.  Her  father  was  Emile  De  Vendel,  a  teacher 
of  some  distinction  in  a  country  where  teaching  is  regarded 
as  one  of  the  professions,  and  where  intellect,  education,  and  birth  are 
principally  valued  as  the  "open  sesames  "  of  good  society.  Adelaide 
de  Vendel  was  married  early  to  Mr.  West  of  St.  Louis:  he  was  a  law 
yer  by  profession.  After  his  death,  she  resided  in  Mobile,  where  she 
contracted  a  second  marriage  with  Mr.  Paul  Chaudron.  Left  again 
a  widow,  she  was  compelled  by  misfortune  to  adopt  her  father's  honor 
able  occupation,  and  being  well  qualified  by  her  talents  and  accom 
plishments,  she  assumed  the  charge  of  a  seminary  for  young  ladies,  a 
position  she  still  fills. 

She  is  known  as  an  author  principally  from  her  translation  of  the 
"Joseph  II."  of  the  Miihlbach  novels,  and  also  for  her  compilation  of  a 
series  of  readers  and  a  spelling-book,  during  the  late  war.  These  were 
published  in  Mobile,  and  adopted  in  the  public  schools  of  that  city  ; 
they  are  regarded  as  really  excellent  text-books. 

The  "  Round  Table,"  a  journal  not  usually  too  favorable  in  its  judg 
ment  of  Southern  authors,  speaks  thus  of  the  translation  of  the  "  Jo 
seph  II.  and  his  Court": 

"  The  translation  of  this  volume  is  unusually  praiseworthy.  Some  small 
things  might  be  said  by  way  of  criticism,  but  we  pass  them  in  deference  to 
its  general  superiority.  A  translator  is  to  be  tested  by  the  success  with 
which  the  spirit  of  the  original  is  preserved  in  the  translation.  To  translate 
\vords  is  a  simple  task,  but  to  re-embody  the  original  work  in  its  spirit  in  the 
translation  is  the  work  of  genius.  Madame  Chaudron,  to  achieve  this  result, 
has  dared  to  assume  the  responsibility  of  a  free  translation,  and  has  succeeded." 

523 


524  SOUTHLAND    WHITER  8. 

"  Joseph  II."  was  published  during  the  war  by  the  late  S.  H.  Goetzel, 
of  Mobile,  aud  was  the  introduction  of  the  now  well-known  Miihlbach 
i-i nuances  into  the  United  States. 

Mrs.  De  Chaudron  is  much  appreciated  in  the  society  of  Mobile ; 
she  has  fine  conversational  powers,  an  excellent  memory,  and  a  happy 
facility  in  imparting  ideas  and  knowledge  gathered  from  general  read 
ing;  her  fine  musical  powers  make  her  an  acquisition  to  any  circle; 
IKT  #]>ecialile  is  decidedly  the  acquisition  of  foreign  languages. 


MISS  KATE  CUMMING. 

MISS  CUMMING  hardly  can  be  classed  as  a  "writer"  in  the  pro 
fessional  interpretation  of  that  term,  "  Hospital  Life  in  the  Army 
of  the  Tennessee  "  being  her  only  contribution  to  the  literature  of 
the  country. 

Miss  Cumming  is  of  Scotch  descent,  and  has  resided  in  Mobile  since 
childhood. 

"  Hospital  Life  in  the  Army  of  the  Tennessee  "  was  published  by 
John  P.  Morton  &  Co.,  Louisville,  Kentucky,  in  1866.  Says  a  re 
viewer  : 

"  At  the  first  glance  over  the  title-page  of  this  book,  the  reader  will, 
very  likely,  form  an  opinion  of  it  from  the  work  written  by  Miss  Florence 
Nightingale  after  the  Crimean  War.  But  Miss  Cumming's  book  is  of  a 
very  different  character.  Miss  Nightingale  confined  herself  almost  entirely 
to  her  life  in  the  hospitals  at  Scutari  and  its  vicinity,  and  gave  minute 
directions  upon  the  subject  of  nursing  the  sick  and  wounded,  the  manage 
ment  of  hospitals,  and  general  clinical  treatment.  Miss  Cumming  aims  to 
do  more  than  this.  She  was  constantly  with  the  army  in  the  field,  received 
the  wounded  in  nearly  every  action,  and  assisted  in  organizing  the  field  hos 
pitals  in  the  memorable  campaigns  in  Tennessee,  Kentucky,  and  finally  in 
Georgia,  when  the  army  was  retreating.  She  has  told  the  story  in  a  plain, 
straightforward  manner,  made  up  from  the  diary  kept  through  the  war ;  and 
has  presented  a  very  fair  history  of  the  operations  of  the  Western  army 
under  Bragg,  Johnston,  and  Hood.  To  the  soldiers  of  the  Army  of  the  Ten 
nessee,  and  to  their  relatives  and  friends,  this  book  contains  much  that  is 
interesting.  An  heroic  woman  leaves  her  comfortable  home  in  the  Gulf 
City,  and  offers  her  services  as  a  matron  in  the  corps  of  field-nurses.  She 
devotes  her  whole  time  to  the  care  of  the  sick  and  wounded  soldiers,  sees  to 
the  cleansing  of  their  hospital  wards,  attends  to  their  food,  and  often  with 
her  own  hand  prepares  delicacies  for  those  prostrate  with  wounds  or  burn 
ing  with  fever.  But  she  is  not  located  in  some  interior  village,  where  every 
thing  is  quiet,  and  food  plenty ;  her  place  is  in  the  field.  She  follows  the 
army  in  all  its  wanderings,  prepares  lint  and  provides  stimulants  when  a 
battle  is  expected,  and  establishes  temporary  sick- wards  in  the  first  building 
to  be  had,  when  the  battle  has  been  fought  and  the  wounded  are  being  brought 
in.  For  four  years  Miss  Gumming  followed  this  army-life,  and  every  evening, 

525 


526  -  "  l     I   II  I.  A  N  l>     U   U  ITERS. 

after  tin-  fatigue-  of  tin-  day.  <|>ent  a  fr\v  nioinciits  over  her  diary,  recording 
the  incidents  that  transpired  around  her,  'all  of  which  she  saw,'  to  para- 
phra-i  thr  c\|,rc --imi  •  •!'  Ca-ar.  'ami  :i  |p;irt  of  which  she  was.' 

"The  bonk  is  almost  a  transcript  of  that  field-diary.  It  has  been  but 
little  altered,  and  still  bears  evidences  of  haste  in  some  parts,  as  if  the 
word*  were  written  ju-t  before  starting  for  Dalton  or  Atlanta,  when  the  army 
was  retreating ;  and  of  fatigue  in  others,  as  if  jotted  down  after  being  all  day 
ministering  to  the  sick.  But  while  some  may  complain  of  this  crudity,  if 
we  may  so  call  it.  then-  can  In-  no  doubt  that  this  adds  very  much  to  the 
spirit  or  piquancy  of  the  book.  Its  main  beauty  is,  that  the  words  convey 
all  the  force  and  testimony  of  an  eye-witness,  or  even  of  an  actor  in  the 
event*  recorded.'' 


LAURA  S.  WEBB. 

MRS.  "VVEBB  is  "  one  of  the  many  "  Southern  women  who  have 
suffered  much  and  lost  their  all  by  the  war.  For  several  years 
she  contributed  poems  and  sketches  to  various  papers,  under  the  signa 
ture  of  "  Stannie  Lee."  Dr.  W.  T.  Webb,  the  husband  of  Mrs.  Webb, 
fought  gallantly  as  a  private,  as  lieutenant,  and  as  captain,  and  was 
then  surgeon  in  the  Seventh  Mississippi  Regiment.  He  contracted 
consumption  in  the  army,  and  died  after  the  close  of  the  war,  leaving 
his  widow  with  three  little  children. 

Mrs.  Webb  became  a  teacher  in  the  St.  Joseph's  Institute,  Mobile, 
and  in  the  spring  of  1868  published  a  little  volume  entitled,  "Heart 
Leaves,"  to  which  the  following  is  the  introduction : 

"  Read  not  through  prismatic  light 

These  sorrow-shaded  leaves, 
For  they  are  from  a  heart  where  oft 

The  spell  of  sorrow  weaves ! 
No  genius  rare  dwells  in  the  soul 

From  whence  these  leaflets  came,   , 
And  the  writer  does  not  seek  for  them 

The  laurel-wreath  of  fame. 
Yet  sometimes  from  these  humble  leaves 

There  comes  an  inward  moan, 
That  wells  from  the  depths  of  a  bleeding  heart, 

By  saddened  memories  torn. 
Like  some  deserted  fountain, 

Choked  by  advancing  years, 
The  waters  of  that  heart  ooze  out 

In  silence  and  in  tears." 


THE  HOME  OF  MISS  EVANS. 

"  'T  is  the  home  of  the  beautiful,  the  home  of  the  true, 
Where  the  jewels  of  thought  that  hallow  the  view, 
Are  linked  with  flowers  that  bloom  in  the  soul, 
Down  deep  where  the  waves  of  genius  roll ! " 

Not  long  since,  we  paid  a  visit  to  Miss  Evans  in  her  home,  near  the  city 
of  Mobile.     It  is  a  sweet,  secluded  spot,  where  thought  can  revel  in  the  sun- 

527 


628  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

hhine  of  joy,  and  weave  into  deathless  garlands  the  jewels  that  glow  in  the 
1. rain  ami  tin-  soul.  All  whisper  of  peace  and  breathe  of  beauty  around  the 
In  line  where  Augusta  J.  Evans  holds  communion  with  her  pen  and  soul. 
The  enchantment  that  clusters  around  all  that  belongs  to  fame,  clings 
tliirkly  al.uut  the  homestead  which  her  pen  has  rendered  classic  forever. 

Previous  to  our  visit,  we  had  never  met  Miss  Evans,  and,  as  we  had  often 
n-ail  and  admired  her  works,  it  was  with  pleasure  we  wended  our  way 
through  the  gravelled  walks  that  led  to  her  dwelling.  Our  summons  at  the 
door  was  answered  by  a  servant,  who  ushered  us  into  an  elegantly  furnished 
parlor,  where  we  awaited  the  appearance  of  Miss  Evans.  While  sitting 
there  alone,  we  noted  the  rare  beauty  of  the  paintings  that  breathed  upon 
the  walls.  They  were  master-works  of  master-minds,  that  had  drunk  deeply 
of  inspiration,  and  had  left  the  impress  of  their  souls  on  the  canvas  that  now 
glowed  with  life.  But  not  long  did  we  feast  our  gaze  upon  these  glorious 
works  of  art,  for  soon  Miss  Evans  entered,  and  then  we  saw  nothing  but  her. 
She  advanced  to  greet  us  with  extended  hand  and  pleasant  smile,  and  soon 
we  found  ourselves  conversing  with  her  who  has  won  the  brightest  wreath 
of  Southern  fame.  She  was  robed  in  an  evening  dress  of  pale  blue  silk, 
that  suited  well  with  her  complexion  of  pearly  whiteness.  It  would  be  diffi 
cult  to  determine  which  pleased  the  most,  her  loveliness,  the  beautiful  sim 
plicity  of  her  toilet,  or  her  conversation.  All  harmonized,  all  suited,  all 
<•  /*'//•  ined. 

There  is  no  pedantry  or  affectation  about  her ;  she  converses  fluently,  and 
the  words  ripple  musically  from  her  lips,  as  if  they  were  the  glad  murmur  of 
a  happy  heart.  May  she  be  forever  blest  and  happy;  for  though  the  "Sunny 
South  "  is  blighted  and  darkened,  and  many  of  her  truest,  hearts  are  sorrow 
ful  and  sad,  yet  may  our  gifted  writer  never  feel  her  soul  wrapped  in  the 
pall  that  deep  sorrow  weaves ! 

We  spent  a  delightful  hour  in  her  company,  and  then,  as  we  had  other 
preying  engagements,  we  rose  to  take  our  leave.  Miss  Evans  accompanied 
us  to  the  outer  door,  and  as  we  bade  her  adieu,  as  she  stood  there  in  the 
doorway,  with  the  golden  light  of  sunset  bathing  her  fair  brow,  we  felt  that 
though,  perchance,  we  were  destined  never  to  linger  near  her  again  in  life, 
yet  our  soul  would  forever  keep  her  memory  green. 

Mi>>  Kvans  is  tall  and  queenly  in  her  bearing,  graceful  and  swanlike  in 
her  movements,  and  there  is  a  charm  about  her  manner  that  wins  the  heart 
at  once.  Her  "eyes  are  thrones  of  expression,"  and  seem  to  burn  with  their 
glorious  beauty  down  into  the  caverns  of  the  soul.  But  the  crowning  beauty 
of  that  classic  face  is  written  on  the  brow,  where  the  seal  of  intellect  is 
impressed.  'Tis  a  tit  resting-place  for  the  wreath  that  she  has  won  with  the 
irenius  of  her  soul.  May  no  poison  ever  lurk  beneath  those  laurel-leaves 
that  twine  with  dewy  fre-hm-ss  around  that  beauteous  brow!  Alas!  how  oft 
is  the  ehaplet  of  fame  given  those  who  drink  deepest  of  the  cup  of  woe! 
But  never  may  the  chalice  of  bitterness  be  pressed  to  the  joy-wreathed  lips 


LAURA    S.    WEBB.  529 

of  Augusta  J.  Evans ;  may  the  night-time  of  sorrow  never  cling  around  her 
heart  where  the  spell  of  genius  lingers. 

"  Oh !  why  is  it  forever  willed 

That  hearts  where  brightest  shine 
The  gifts  of  feeling,  deep  and  rare, 

Must  deepest  steep  in  sorrow's  brine  ? 
'    'T  is  but  to  teach  the  gifted  one 
There  is  no  rest  till  heaven  is  won  !  " 

Genius  is  a  glorious,  but  yet  a  fearful  gift  —  a  gift  that  wreathes  the  soul 
with  the  sweetest  and  most  treasured  flowers  of  the  heart,  bathes  them  with 
the  dew  that  welled  from  the  deep  urn  of  the  soul,  and  causes  that  heart 
and  soul,  with  all  their  buds  of  beauty  and  of  hope,  to  twine  with  deathless 
grasp  around  an  earthly  idol.  Then  for  a  brief,  glad  while,  flashes  of  wild 
joy  quiver  through  the  deep  chambers  of  the  soul  where  the  fire  of  genius 
burns,  and  then  —  ask  of  the  ashes  of  desolation  that  lie  on  the  hearthstone 
of  the  heart. 

We  have  woven  Miss  Evans,  her  home  and  genius  together,  as  they  are 
one  and  the  same,  except  the  blight  that  so  often  withers  the  greenest  wreath. 
We  will  not  link  the  bands  of  sorrow  with  the  destiny  that  we  predict  for 
her.  The  hand  of  fate  may  leave  her  brow  unscathed. 

'T  is  appropriate  to  link  her  name  with  that  of  genius,  as  she  is  the  child, 
and  her  home  the  abode  of  genius.  And  the  place  that  her  footprints  have 
marked,  the  birds  that  have  sung  at  her  windows,  the  breezes  that  have 
kissed  her  brow  and  cheek,  and  the  flowers  that  bloom  round  her  home,  are 
blessed  forever  by  the  spell  that  her  presence  has  cast. 

And  though  she  may  wander  beneath  the  blue  skies  of  Italy,  and  gaze 
with  rapture  on  its  glorious  sunsets ;  though  she  may  tread  the  sunny  shores 
of  France,  and  inhale  the  fragrance  of  its  delightful  clime;  and  though 
Switzerland,  the  land  of  beauty,  may  thrill  her  soul  with  joy  "  in  her  wan 
derings  from  home,"  yet  we  know  that  "  backward,  still  backward,"  will  her 
heart  ever  turn  to  her  sunny-bright  home  near  the  "  Mexican  sea." 
2 


MRS.  ANNIE  CREIGHT  LLOYD.* 

ANNIE  P.  CREIGHT,  in  1863,  published  several  short  articles 
in  prose  and  verse  in  the  "Gulf  City  Home  Journal,"  of  Mobile, 
her  first  appearance  in  print.     The  editor  of  that  journal,  in  alluding 
to  Miss  Creight's  contributions,  remarked : 

"  Miss  Creight  has  put  in  our  hands,  with  evident  trepidation  and  timid 
ity,  several  short  papers.  We  saw  some  faults,  but  we  thought  that  they 
could  be  remedied  by  a  little  encouragement,  and  we  gave  them  to  the  pub 
lic.  We  thought  if  we  would  assist  the  bird  to  learn  to  fly,  that  it  would  fly 
very  well  after  a  while." 

And  the  editor  truly  prophesied,  for  since  that  time  Miss  Creight 
has  made  for  herself  quite  a  to-be-envied  place  among  "  Southland 
writers."  Her  first  novelette  appeared  in  the  "Army  Argus  and 
Crisis,"  Mobile,  and  was  entitled  "  Garnet ;  or,  Through  the  Shadows 
into  Light ; "  which  was  followed  by  "  Hagar ;  or,  The  Lost  Jewel," 
which  we  consider  superior  to  any  of  her  published  novelettes.  These 
novelettes  have  had  the  honor  of  republication  in  the  columns  of  a 
Mississippi  paper,  since  the  close  of  the  war. 

In  the  summer  of  1867,  Mrs.  Lloyd  was  the  successful  competitor 
for  a  prize  offered  by  the  "  Mobile  Sunday  Times "  for  the  best 
romance ;  "  Pearl ;  or,  The  Gem  of  the  Vale,"  being  the  title  of  the 
successful  novelette. 

Miss  Creight  was  born  in  Abbeville,  South  Carolina :  she  is  yet 
young  in  years,  and  with  careful  study  and  judicious  pruning  of  her 
narratives  will  accomplish  something  worthy  of  herself  and  her  coun 
try.  At  an  early  age,  Miss  Creight  removed  to  Mississippi ;  was  edu 
cated  in  Aberdeen,  where  she  graduated  in  1859 ;  deprived  of  parents, 
she  came  to  Mobile,  Alabama,  and  shared  the  home  of  an  uncle ;  in 
1866,  she  was  married  to  William  E.  Lloyd,  and  resides  in  Mobile, 
occasionally  writing  as  a  recreation. 

»  Extracts  from  her  writings  -were  accidentally  destroyed. 

630 


MRS.  E.  W.  BELLAMY. 

MRS.  E.  W.  BELLAMY  ("Kampa  Thorpe")  has  not,  as  yet, 
accomplished  a  great  deal  in  the  literature  of  her  country,  but 
what  she  has  published  she  has  cause  to  be  proud  of.  Her  novel 
"Four  Oaks"  was  published  by  Carleton,  New  York,  1867.  The 
"  Round  Table,"  New  York,  under  the  impression  that  "  Kampa 
Thorpe"  was  of  the  masculine  gender,  thus  alludes  to  "Four  Oaks"  : 

"  This  is  a  story  of  every-day  life,  in  which  all  the  incidents  are  probable, 
and,  what  is  yet  more  rare,  the  characters  are  all  perfectly  natural.  A  num 
ber  of  men  and  women,  differing  in  age  though  not  in  station,  are  brought 
together  on  terms  of  pleasant  acquaintanceship,  and  there  is  a  more  liberal 
allowance  than  usual  of  intelligent  men  and  brainless  nonentities,  of  sensible 
women  and  those  torments  of  modern  society,  women  of  an  uncertain  age 
on  the  lookout  for  husbands  ;  and  although  there  are  no  diabolical  villains, 
there  are  mischief-makers  enough  to  occasion  unpleasant  complications, 
which,  together  with  mysterious  miniatures  and  family  secrets,  combine  to 
sustain  an  interest  which  the  events  of  the  story  would  not  otherwise  suffice 
to  keep  alive. 

"  The  scene  opens  in  the  pleasant  toAvn  of  Netherford,  where,  after  a  severe 
round  of  introductions  to  the  forefathers  and  relatives  of  the  heroine,  we  are 
presented  to  a  charming,  good-hearted,  and  beautiful  girl,  a  little  spoiled, 
rather  self-willed,  and  somewhat  too  self-reliant,  but  so  true  and  honest,  so 
free  from  all  the  vices  which  attach  to  the  fashionable  and  fast  young  lady 
of  the  present  day,  that  we  are  grateful  to  the  author  who  awakens  our  in 
terest  for  a  woman  equally  endowed  with  vitality,  modesty,  and  common 
sense.  There  is  an  absence  of  all  romance  about  a  life  passed  among  such 
restless  and  ill-assorted  people  as  form  the  society  of  Netherford,  but  the 
author  has  refrained  from  giving  us  any  exaggerated  or  extravagant  scenes  ; 
he  is  thoroughly  consistent  and  natural,  and  his  imagination  has  evidently 
been  greatly  assisted  by  personal  observation." 

And  a  Southern  editor  and  critic  of  experience  (Major  W.  T.  Walt- 
hall)  thus  reviews  the  book : 

"  We  have  subjected  this  volume  to  careful  reading  —  a  reading  much  more 
careful  than  we  are  in  the  habit  of  giving  to  any  new  novel. 

"  We  confess  having  commenced  '  Four  Oaks '  with  some  nervous  appre- 

531 


532  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Illusions  — fear  h-*t  it  might  prove  like  too  many  books  by  Southern  authors, 
which  Ui.sk  the  ingenuity  of  an  indulgent  reviewer  to  effect  an  awkward  com 
promise  between  camlor  ami  charity  in  the  expression  of  his  opinion.  They 
have  to  be  'damned  with  faint  praise,' or  eased  off  with  unmeaning  plati 
tudes.  '  Four  Oaks,'  we  are  happy  to  say,  is  not  one  of  such  books.  We 
have  read  it  through  with  continually  increasing  interest,  and  have  laid  it 
down  with  that  paradoxically  pleasant  regret  which  busy  people  rarely  have 
the  luxury  of  feeling  in  finishing  a  book  —  regret  that  it  is  ended. 

"Considering  the  temptations  held  out  by  the  examples  of  some  of  the  most 
successful  novels  of  the  day,  '  Four  Oaks '  is  to  be  commended  almost  as 
much  for  what  it  is  not,  as  for  what  it  is.  It  is  not  a  'sensational'  story. 
There  is  not  a  battle,  nor  a  duel,  nor  a  ghost,  nor  a  murder,  and  but  one 
pi>tol-shot  in  it.  [We  do  not  object  to  a  reasonable  use  of  these  elements 
of  interest  in  a  novel,  but  it  is  very  refreshing  to  meet  with  one  that  can  be 
just  as  interesting  without  them.]  It  has  no  violations  of  the  letter  or  the 
spirit  of  the  seventh  commandment  —  no  sentimental  apologies  for  vice  — 
no  poetic  idealization  of  acts  and  passions  which  in  the  honest  language  of 
the  Scriptures  are  called  by  homely  names  that  would  be  inadmissible  in 
elegant  fiction.  Without  a  particle  of  prudery  or  pretension,  it  is  imbued 
with  the  very  atmosphere  of  purity  —  purity  not  inculcated,  but  taken  for 
granted.  To  say  that  the  author  is  a  lady,  ought  to  be  sufficient  to  make  all 
this  follow  as  a  matter  of  course;  but,  unfortunately,  some  of  the  lady  nov 
elists  of  this  generation  have  taught  us  a  different  lesson. 

"  Nor  does  the  author  of  '  Four  Oaks '  delight  in  twisting  and  torturing 
human  passions  and  feelings  into  agonies  of  strange  attitudes  and  fantastic 
developments.  Her  characters  are  men  and  women,  with  loves,  hates,  hopes, 
(ears,  joys,  sorrows,  faults,  and  follies,  like  those  of  other  people. 

Neither  is  'Four  Oaks'  a  device  for  showing  off  the  learning  of  the  au 
thor.  She  shows  the  effects  of  culture,  but  not  its  processes.  There  is,  per 
haps,  rather  too  much  botany  in  one  of  her  chapters,  but  this  is  an  exception 
to  the  general  rule. 

"  Again,  '  Four  Oaks '  is  neither  political,  polemical,  nor  philosophical. 
Thoroughly  Southern  as  it  is,  the  word  '  Southern '  scarcely  occurs  in  it,  nor 
is  there  anything  said  of  patriotism,  or  chivalry,  or  the  sunny  South,  or  the 
peculiar  institution.  Its  locality  is  defined  only  by  its  general  tone,  spirit, 
and  the  language,  manners,  and  usages  of  the  people  who  figure  in  it.  It 
has  no  theory  to  maintain,  nor  any  '  mission  '  to  fulfil. 

"  It  is  needless,  however,  to  specify  the  negative  merits  of  'Four  Oaks,' 
when  it  has  so  many  that  are  positive.  It  is  a  story  of  every-day  life.  Its 
materials  and  its  style  are  of  the  most  unpretending  sort.  We  are  introduced 
in  the  early  chapters  into  the  society  of  a  pleasant  little  circle  of  people  in 
'  the  town  of  Netherford,'  on  the  '  banks  of  the  Ominihaw,'  and  these  people 
:tute  nearly  all  the  personages  of  the  story.  The  heroine  is  far  from 
being  a  model  of  propriety.  She  is  full  of  faults  and  foibles,  which  some- 


E.    W.    BELL  A  M  Y.  533 

times  provoke  the  friendly  reader  and  make  his  interest  and  sympathy  trem 
ble  in  the  balance  for  a  moment,  but  she  is  sure  to  carry  away  his  heart  in 
the  end.  Her  education  is  lamentably  imperfect  when  she  is  first  intro 
duced.  She  likes  picnics  and  dancing  better  than  books,  has  never  read 
even  '  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,'  and  '  The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore'  is  new 
to  her;  but  she  has  a  heart,  and  an  honest  one,  and  she  is  witty  and  beautiful. 
Herein,  as  we  think,  the  author  again  shows  good  sense.  We  have  a  great 
respect  for  plain  women.  They  often  make  admirable  nurses,  friends,  mo 
thers,  sisters,  and  even  sweethearts  and  wives  for  those  who  are  indifferent 
about  beauty,  but  they  do  not  answer  for  heroines  of  romance.  Even  Jane 
Eyre  has  to  marry  a  blind  man.  But  Harry  Vane  is  not  only  beautiful  —  she 
is  bewitching  in  every  sense.  We  may  vow  that  she  is  unworthy  of  being 
loved,  but  she  wins  us  back  in  the  course  of  the  next  minute,  and  binds  us 
faster  than  ever.  The  progress  of  her  character,  and  the  quiet  but  steady 
growth  of  its  improvement,  are  among  the  most  interesting  features  in  the 
book  ;  and  yet  there  is  no  parade  made  of  it.  The  art  of  the  artist  is  admi 
rably  concealed. 

"  We  have  never  read  anything  more  thoroughly  and  unaffectedly  natural 
than  the  characters,  the  conversation,  and  incidents  of  this  book.  It  exhales 
the  very  odor  of  the  groves,  the  fields,  the  forests,  and  the  ancestral  homes 
of  Virginia  or  the  Carolinas ;  and  yet,  as  we  have  already  said,  neither  Vir 
ginia  nor  Carolina  is  mentioned.  There  are  no  tedious  and  elaborate  de 
scriptions  of  scenery  or  analyses  of  character :  the  touches  that  set  them  be 
fore  us  so  vividly  are  imperceptible.  The  humor  of  some  passages  is  delight 
ful.  It  must  be  a  dull  soul  —  totally  insensible  to  mirth  —  that  can  read 
unmoved  such  scenes  as  the  account  of  the  first  meeting  of  the  Quodlibet, 
or  that  of  Mr.  Dunbar's  courtship,  or  his  prescription  of  '  earthworms  and 
turpentine,'  or  some  others  that  might  be  specified. 

"  But  it  is  in  the  love-scenes  of  '  Four  Oaks '  that  its  chief  charm  consists. 
Trite  as  is  the  theme,  it  is  still  that  which  stirs  most  deeply  the  human  heart, 
and  has  the  most  universal  attraction  for  human  sympathy.  We  have  often 
seen  its  influences  depicted  with  more  power,  but  never  with  so  much  of  ex 
quisite  grace,  delicacy,  and  fidelity,  as  in  this  book.  Without  a  particle  of 
sentimentality  to  repel  the  most  fastidious  taste,  it  unites  all  the  truth  and 
tenderness  of  the  sentimental  school  with  the  sparkle  of  the  gayer  and  lighter 
sort,  and  touches  of  exquisite  delicacy,  which  could  proceed  only  from  a 
woman's  pen,  and  which  may  be  appreciated,  but  scarcely  described  or  ana 
lyzed. 

"  We  forbear  to  say  anything  more  in  praise  of  '  Four  Oaks.'  What  we 
have  said  is  not  said  from  any  undue  partiality,  for  we  know  the  writer  only 
by  reputation  —  scarcely  even  by  name.  We  are  sensible,  too,  of  some  faults 
in  her  book.  It  has,  to  a  certain  degree,  that  fault  from  which  scarcely  any 
lady  writer  —  perhaps  none  —  is  entirely  free :  the  fault  of  diffuseness.  But 
then,  there  is  this  difference :  the  works  of  most  women  (and  perhaps  of 


SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

ii  en  too)  would  be  improved  l>y  mincing  them  to  one-fifth  of  their 
dimrii-iiMi-;  in  the  case  of  '  Four  Oaks,'  we  coul<l  nut  |io~sil>ly  upare  more 
than  one-tilth.  There  is  un  artistic  fault  in  the  too  rapid  introduction  of 
i -haraeter-i  in  the  In-jrinning.  The  mind  of  the  reader  is  confused,  and  one 
has  to  look  hark  lor  explanation  oftciier  than  we  like  in  the  hurry  of  novel- 
reading. 

"  Tin-  -urn  of  the  whole  matter  is,  that '  Four  Oaks'  is  the  most  delightful 
book  that  we  have  ivad  for  a  long  time.  It  is  the  very  book  to  be  read  aloud 
either  by  the  winter  h're>ide  or  the  summer  seaside,  with  one  congenial  lis 
tener,  or  a  circle  of  such  listeners,  and  to  leave  all  parties  more  genial,  more 
huppy.  more  thankful  to  the  Creator  for  his  good  gifts,  more  charitable  to 
ward  his  creatures.  It  is  very  rarely  that  we  could  conscientiously  recom 
mend  the  author  of  a  new  novel  to  repeat  the  effort,  but  in  this  case  we  very 
much  hope  that  'Four  Oaks'  is  only  the  beginning  of  a  series.  'Kampa 
Thorpe '  has  not  mistaken  her  vocation." 

Mrs.  Bellamy  is  a  widow,  and  is  a  teacher  in  a  seminary  at  Eutaw, 
Greene  County,  Alabama.  Her  essays  contributed  to  the  "Mobile 
Sunday  Times"  are  beautiful  and  elegant  articles,  and  we  imagine  she 
is  an  ardent  Jover  of  "  nature  and  nature's  God." 

From  her  first  book,  one  can  judge  that  in  the  future  something 
which  the  "  world  will  not  willingly  let  die  "  will  be  forthcoming. 


A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

When  woodlands  spread  their  denser  screen, 
And  wheat  is  reap'd  on  sunburnt  plains; 

When  apples  blush  for  looking  green, 
And  berries  ripen  in  the  lanes; 

When  bees  go  robbing  clove r-fieM>. 

And  barefoot  truant-  wade  the  brook, 
Or  'neath  the  shade  the  forest  yields 

They  seek  them  out  some  breezy  nook ; 

When  summer  weaves"  her  slumb'rous  spell 
Of  dreamy  murmurs,  lulling  can-. 

Till  Thought  lies  dormant  in  his  cell 
To  watch  the  castles  rise  in  air; 

What  vocal  rover  haunt*  the  land. 
1 1  ing  adowu  the  dusty  walks, 


E.    W.    BELLAMY.  535 

Or  in  the  stubble  takes  his  stand, 
And  loudly  of  the  harvest  talks? 

From  sylvan  coverts  far  and  near 

A  name  is  called  from  morn  till  night, 
And  questions  asked  in  accents  clear 

About  the  crop  of  Farmer  White ; 

That  vague,  mysterious  crop  of  peas 

The  gleaners  of  the  feather'd  gown 
Are  waiting  eagerly  to  seize 

When  "  Bob  "  shall  lay  his  sickle  down. 

0  Bob,  Bob  White!  where  doth  he  dwell? 
And  wherefore  do  they  call  his  name  ? 

And  who  is  he?  —  can  any  tell? 
Can  any  whisper  whence  he  came? 

Have  any  seen  him  on  the  hills, 

Industrious  at  the  dawn  of  day? 
Have  any  spied  him  by  the  rills, 

Dozing  the  noontide  hours  away? 

Perchance  he  is  akin  to  Kate 

Who  did  the  deed  without  a  name, 
Or  that  poor  Will  whose  luckless  fate 

The  twilight  babblers  oft  proclaim. 

"A  man  of  words,  and  not  of  deeds," 

He  dwells  in  an  unreal  clime, 
And  takes  his  ease  in  sunny  meads, 

Unjostled  by  the  march  of  time. 

In  those  fair  realms  beyond  the  stream, 
That  parts  the  infant  from  the  man, 

1  see  this  farmer  in  a  dream, 

With  kindly  eye  and  cheek  of  tan ; 

A  jolly  wight,  who  loves  his  pipe, 

And  knows  the  cunning  speech  of  birds, 
But  parleys  o'er  his  peas  unripe 

To  teach  his  reapers  human  words. 

An  echo  from  old  Babyland, 

His  name,  across  the  vanish'd  years 
By  summer  breezes  lightly  fann'd, 

Brings  happy  thoughts  bedew'd  with  tears. 


536  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

What  tireless  rambles  through  the  wood, 
What  revels  round  the  bubbling  spring, 

By  slopes  whereon  the  stout  oaks  stood, 
And  held  the  grape-vine  for  a  swing! 

O  summer  days  I  O  summer  joys ! 

That  come  not  as  they  came  of  old ; 
Their  charm  still  lingers  in  the  voice 

Now  piping  from  the  sunlit  wold. 

"Wherefore  be  blessings  on  the  bird 
That  warbles  with  such  magic  art; 

What  time  his  "  airy  tongue  "  is  heard, 

The  past  illuminates  the  heart! 
JULY,  1868. 


TRANSITION. 
"BRILL  ON  THE  HILL,"  ALA. 

How  soon  will  end  the  Summer  days ! 

Though  thick  and  green  the  forest-leaves, 
Already  Autumn's  golden  haze 
About  the  woods  and  hilly  waya 

A  veil  of  tender  radiance  weaves. 

Oh  !  what  is  in  the  Autumn  sun, 

And  what  is  in  the  Autumn  air, 
Makes  all  they  shine  and  breathe  upon, 
Ere  yet  the  Summer  days  are  gone, 
Look  so  exceeding  sweet  and  fair  ? 

E'en  weeds,  that  through  the  Summer  rain 

Grew  wanton,  and  o'ertopped  the  flowers,  • 
Rude  children  of  the  sunburnt  plain, — 
Bud  out  and  blossom,  not  in  vain, 
Around  the  Summer's  faded  bowers. 

For  long  ago  the  violets  fled, 

The  pansy  closed  its  purple  eye, 
The  poppy  hung  its  uncrowned  head, 
And  on  the  garden's  grass-grown  bed 
The  lily  laid  her  down  to  die. 

No  more  the  roses  bud  and  blow ; 
The  few  late  beauties  that  remain 


E.    W.    BELLAMY.  537 

Are  tossed  by  rough  winds  to  and  fro, 

And  all  their  fragrant  leaves  laid  low 

And  scattered  by  the  latter  rain. 

Like  some  old  limner's  quaint  design 

The  sunlight's  checkered  play  doth  seem, 
And  through  the  clusters  on  the  vine, 
As  through  a  goblet  filled  with  wine, 

Soft,  shimmering  sparkles  gleam. 

i 
The  red-cheeked  apples  thickly  grow 

About  the  orchard's  leafy  mass, 
But  when  they  hear  the  tempest  blow, 
Through  twisted  boughs  they  sliding  go 

And  hide  within  the  tangled  grass. 

No  more  the  partridge's  whistle  rings ; 

The  dove  her  plaintive  cry  has  ceased, — 
From  tree  to  tree,  on  restless  wings, 
The  mock-bird  flits,  but  never  sings : 

The  west  wind  rocks  an  empty  nest. 

All  harmonies  of  Summer  fail ! 

The  vaulting  insects  cease  to  sport ; 
The  songs  of  bees  alone  prevail, 
The  winged  traffickers  that  sail 

From  flowery  port  to  port. 

Upon  the  hills  and  in  the  fields 

A  few  pale  flowers  begin  to  blow ; 
A  few  pale  buds  the  garden  yields, 
A  few  pale  blooms  the  hedge-row  shields ; 

Summer  consents  not  yet  to  go. 

O  yellow  leaf  amid  the  green ! 

Sad  presage  of  the  coming  fall, 
Soon  where  your  withered  tent  is  seen 
Shall  Autumn's  gorgeous  banners  screen 

The  incipient  ruin  over  all ! 

Though  sadly  to  ourselves  we  say, 

"  The  summer  days  will  soon  be  o'er," 
Yet  who  may  tell  the  very  day 
Whereon  the  Summer  went  away, 

Though  closely  watching  evermore  ? 


f>.'J8  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

With  Hailing  clouds  the  heavens  teem, 
That  beckon  like  impatient  guides, 
x  And  like  the  gliding  of  a  stream, 

Like  thoughts  that  mingle  in  :i  dream, 
The  Summer  into  Autumn  glide.-. 

She  goes !  and  leaves  the  woods  forlorn ; 

For  grief  the  birds  refuse  to  sing ; 
Bare  lie  the  fields  that  laughed  with  corn  ; 
But  of  each  garnered  grain  is  born 

The  certain  promise  of  the  Spring. 


SHADOW-FAME. 

"Where  be  those  old  divinities  forlorn 
That  dwelt  in  trees  ?  " 

Plea  of  the  Midsummer  Fairies. 

The  imagination  of  the  poet,  says  Madame  de  Stael,  forms  a  link  between 
the  physical  and  moral  world  —  by  building  upon  that  secret  alliance  of  our 
being  with  the  marvels  of  nature.  From  this  "secret  alliance"  sprang  the 
exquisite  creations  of  the  elder  bards,  divinities  that  dwelt  within  the  envel 
oping  bark,  and  lived,  suffered,  and  died  with  the  tree,  ofttinies  walking 
abroad  and  communing  with  man. 

Those  days  are  passed  away :  the  imprisoned  hamadryads  walk  no  more 
abroad,  yet  not  altogether  silent  do  they  dwell  within  their  homes  of  bark. 
The  forests  still  whisper  unto  man  sweet  idyls  of  the  spring,  or  sigh  forth 
sad  elegies  of  autumn,  and  still  orchards  yield  their  gracious  fruits,  and  hide 
within  leafy  bowers  "all  throats  that  gurgle  sweet."  Green  boughs  still 
throw  soft  shadows  on  the  summer  grass  when  the  noon  burns  hot,  and  wave 
a  brec/.y  welcome. 

The  story  of  that  memorable  tree  in  Eden,  so  closely  interwoven  with 
man's  destiny,  is  but  the  beginning  of  the  intimacy  that  has  so  long  existed 
between  mankind  and  the  children  of  the  forest  and  the  garden ;  as  though 
the  trees  had  followed  the  "exiles  of  Eden"  out  into  the  forlorn  and  dreary 
world  to  shelter  and  sustain  them  —  how  often,  in  after-ages,  to  prove  a  most 
sure  refuge  in  the  day  of  adversity  I  Nor  was  this  all ;  faithful  monitors 
from  a  ruined  paradise,  with  arms  forever  stretching  upward,  they  point 
man  to  the  skies!  Judea's  stately  palm  sheltered  the  wife  of  Lapidoth  in 
peace  while  "the  children  of  Israel  came  up  to  her  for  judgment;"  but  an 
avenging  oak  in  the  wood  of  Ephraim  seized  the  rebellious  son  of  David, 
and  held  him  aloft  while  Joab's  three  darts  clove  their  way  into  his  heart. 
When  Zaccheus,  in  the  press  and  crowd  of  Jericho,  would  see  the  Saviour  of 


E.    W,    BELLAMY.  539 

mankind,  a  sycamore  lent  its  strong  back  to  this  man  "of  little  stature." 
The  fig-tree  that  withered  at  a  word  bore  testimony  to  Christ's  divinity;  and 
it  was  under  the  shade  of  trees  that  he  went  out  to  pray  when  there  were 
none  to  watch  with  him. 

In  attestation  of  the  universal  sympathy  between  mankind  and  the  heaven- 
aspiring  trees,  the  religious  myths  of  all  lands  have  consecrated  some  tree  to 
eternal  homage.  The  ancient  Hindoos,  who  believed  in  hamadryads,  were 
accustomed  every  year  to  celebrate  at  great  expense  the  marriage  of  the 
shrub  Toolsea  with  the  pebble-god  Saligram.  The  Enada  Mina  of  Lamaism 
has  its  heaven-born  Zampa  tree,  bearing  fruit  for  the  sustenance  of  the 
Lahen,  spirits  whose  radiant  bodies  sufficed  them  for  light  until  they  partook 
of  the  forbidden  fruits  of  Shlma,  the  earth.  Ormuzd,  the  great  principle  of 
light  and  good  in  the  Persian  mythology,  after  creating  the  sky,  sun,  moon, 
and  stars,  fire,  wind,  and  clouds,  and  bidding  the  mountains  rise,  called  forth 
the  tree  Horn,  the  first  in  the  vegetable  world,  the  perfect  type  of  all  trees. 

The  coffin  of  Osiris,  stranded  among  the  rushes  of  Byblos  on  the  Phoeni 
cian  coast,  found  a  safe  asylum  when  the  pliant  reeds  knit  themselves 
together,  and  grew  into  a  mighty  tree,  enclosing  the  murdered  god. 

The  Greeks  had  their  sacred  olive,  and  their  sacred  fig-tree,  and  that 
renowned  Dodonian  oak  where  the  wood-pigeon  whispered  of  hidden  things, 
nay,  the  tree  itself  had  uttered  speech,  and  even  its  dismembered  limb  that 
ploughed  the  deep  prophesied  unto  those  early  navigators  seeking  the  Golden 
Fleece.  And  the  Romans  in  their  Ficus  Ruminalis  long  preserved  the  mem 
ory  of  that  wild  fig  by  the  yellow  Tiber,  where  the  wolf  nourished  Home's 
twin  founders. 

The  rugged  imagination  of  the  Scandinavians  pictured  the  huge  ash, 
Yggdrasill,  supposing  the  universe  sending  forth  roots  that  reached  to  the 
dwelling  of  the  gods,  the  land  of  the  giants,  and  the  dreary  regions  of  per 
petual  cold  and  darkness.  At  one  of  these  roots  was  the  deep  well  where 
wit  and  wisdom  lie  hidden. 

The  Druids  held  the  oak  sacred,  and  never  suffered  one  to  be  cut.  It  is 
said  the  cathedral  of  Strasbourg  stands  upon  the  spot  where  a  tree  grew, 
worshipped  by  the  rude  tribes  that  dwelt  along  the  Rhine.  Haply  it  was 
the  very  oak  to  which  the  zealous  Boniface  courageously  laid  the  axe,  thick 
with  interlacing  boughs,  that  furnished  the  great  model  of  the  intricate 
Gothic  arches. 

Islam  never  doubts  the  miracle  of  the  acacia- tree,  that  suddenly  sprang  up 
in  the  dim  dawn  to  veil  the  entrance  of  that  cave  of  Mount  Thor,  wherein 
the  Prophet  and  Abu  Beker  had  taken  refuge  the  first  morning  of  their  des 
perate  hegira.  Nor  less  credible,  according  to  the  Arabian  chroniclers,  is 
the  miracle  of  the  groaning  date-tree  of  the  mosque  of  Medina,  disconsolate 
at  the  Prophet's  withdrawal  from  its  supporting  trunk.  Perhaps  it  was  in 
grateful  memory  of  this  timely  service  and  this  delightful  flattery  that 
Mohammed  assigned  to  trees  so  conspicuous  a  role  in  his  fantastic  paradise. 


540  SOUTHLAND    WKITlii:-. 

Tin-  date  tree  li«-  buried  beneath  his  pnlj.it,  there  to  await  the  final  resurroc- 
ti.ni.  when  ii  .-hall  he  tran-ferred  to  Al  Jannet  to  bear  fruit  for  .true  believers. 

Tin-  beautiful  faith  of  Habyland  QOWteCfSAat  a  my>tic  growth,  which 
springs  uj>  in  a  midwinter  night,  ahla/e  with  blossoms  of  taper-flame,  ladeu 
with  the  fruits  of  Santa  Clans,  and  musical  with  the  "bells  of  Yule." 

Rabbinical  fable  and  monkish  legend  have  contributed  to  the  fame  of 
trees;  the  rabbis  aver  that  the  true  cross  was  made  from  a  tree  which  grew 
from  a  slip  of  the  tree  of  life  brought  by  Adam  from  Kden  ;  and  the  monks 
of  (ilastonbury  affirm  that  the  thorn  of  which  our  Lord's  crown  was  made 
was  perpetuated  in  England  by  Joseph  of  Arimathea  when  he  founded  the 
abbey  in  the  Vale  of  Avalon. 

Hut  the  light  of  accepted  history  casts  a  blaze  of  glory  around  many  hon 
ored  trees  that  nt-ed  not  the  aid  of  fable  to  enhance  their  merits.  What 
memories  of  valor  and  heroic  adventure  do  they  record  among  the  nations, 
as  though  the  hamadryads  bad  stepped  forth  and  stamped  a  page  of  history. 

Switzerland  has  her  lime  at  Morat  and  the  long-vanished  tree  of  Altorf, 
under  which  Tell's  little  son  stood  with  the  apple  on  his  head;  France  has 
In-r  two  pear-trees  of  Ivry;  Sweden  her  pine  of  the  Lnngsjo  Forest,  where 
(  ui-tavus  Vasa  found  shelter;  England  her  Royal  Oak  of  Boscobel;  America 
her  Charter  Oak  and  her  Liberty  Elm,  and  the  sad  South  her  "Seven  Pines," 
breathing  their  odorous  sighs  over  heroes  who  died  in  vain. 

The  great  lime  of  Morat  was  not  standing  there  when  the  bold  Duke  of 
Burgundy  led  his  forty  thousand  men  one  summer  day  before  the  gates  of 
the  little  town,  escaping  when  the  battle  was  done  by  "  dint  of  hoof." 

"Here  Burgundy  bequeath'd  his  tombless  host, 
A  bony  heap  through  ages  to  remain  ; 
Themselves  their  monument." 

When,  after  three  hundred  years,  the  Burgundians  of  the  French  army 
destroyed  the  ghastly  "  ossuary,"  what  more  fitting  monument  to  the  mem 
ory  of  the  victory  patriotism  gained  over  oppression  could  the  Swiss  have 
raised  than  this  broad-spreading  tree? 

The  tree  of  Altorf,  where  Gemini  Tell  stood  when  his  father's  unerring 
arrow  clove  the  apple  on  his  head,  is  veiled  in  the  mists  and  shadows  of  a 
vague  tradition,  at  which  the  critic  frowns;  but  it  is  sometimes  well  to  culti 
vate  "a  wise  credulity."  Who  would  forego  the  delight  of  believing  that 
the  tower  of  Altorf's  public  square,  with  its  rude  pictures  of  Tell's  brave 
exploits,  marks  the  very  spot  where  the  shadows  played  upon  the  trembling 
peasants,  awaiting  the  verdict  of  the  Alpine  bow. 

No  monument  rises  where  the  two  pear-trees  of  Ivry  died  upon  the  field 
of  glory;  but  on  that  memorable  day  when  Ivry,  the  obscure,  burst  into 
immortal  glory.  Henry  IV.  bequeathed  these  trees  to  fame,  linked  with  "the 
white  plume  of  Navarre;"  for  here  was  the  rallying  point  he  gave  his 
troops. 


E.    W.    BELLAMY.  541 

Doubtless  the  pine-tree  of  the  Lungsjo  Forest  has  long  since  vanished 
away ;  it  was  already  decaying  when  Gustavus  Vasa  made  his  bed  beneath 
its  boughs;  but  so  long  as  Sweden  reveres  the  memory  of  that  young  prince, 
who  in  the  obscurity  of  the  Dalecarlian  mines  formed  the  bold  scheme  of 
liberating  his  country,  so  long  will  she  cherish  the  recollection  of  the  decay 
ing  pine.  Here  did  the  wounded  and  hunted  prince  find  shelter  three  days 
and  nights,  while  the  Danish  emissaries  sought  him  in  vain  amid  the  dwell 
ings  of  man. 

Conspicuous  among  all  the  trees  of  fame  stands  the  Royal  Oak  of  Boscobel, 

"Wherein  the  younger  Charles  abode 

Till  all  the  paths  were  dim, 
And  far  below  the  Koundhead  rode 
And  hummed  a  surly  hymn." 

Of  this  memorable  and  unique  adventure  Charles  himself  has  left  an  account 
in  that  paper  attributed  to  him  among  the  Pepysian  MSS.  in  Magdalen  Col 
lege,  Cambridge.  This  pollard  oak,  whereof  the  branches  grew  so  propitiously 
bushy  and  thick,  stood  not  within  the  wood  of  Boscobel,  where  the  fugitive 
king  had  previously  passed  a  most  miserable  day,  sore  with  fatigue,  and  wet 
with  the  September  rain.  Major  Careless  pointed  it  out  from  the  windows  of 
Puidrell'.s  house,  standing  among  several  others  in  an  open  field.  Thither 
came  Charles  and  the  faithful  cavalier  at  dawn,  and  here  they  passed  the  weary 
day,  Charles  sleeping  with  his  head  in  the  Major's  lap:  while  "going  up  and 
down  in  the  thicket  of  the  wood,  searching  for  persons  who  had  escaped,"  wan 
dered  the  vengeful  Roundheads.  Nor  is  Charles  the  only  monarch  who,  in  the 
hour  of  need,  found  safety  by  climbing  a  tree.  It  is  related  of  Louis  VII.,  of 
France,  that  when  the  army  he  was  conducting  to  Palestine  was  attacked  at 
dead  of  night  by  the  Turks,  he  climbed  a  tree  while  the  battle  raged  amid 
darkness  and  disorder,  escaping  only  at  dawn  to  find  his  camp  almost  deserted. 

Charter  Oak  stands  first  upon  America's  list  of  renowned  trees.  It  grew 
upon  Wylly's  Hill,  now  within  the  city  limits  of  Hartford,  where  it  was 
found  flourishing  in  the  perfection  of  its  glory  when  the  first  inhabitant  of 
the  name  settled  on  the  hill.  Perhaps,  as  Cowper  supposes  in  the  case  of 
Yardley  Oak,  a  deer's  nimble  foot  scooped  a  hollow  for  an  acorn,  and  the 
forest  winds  nursed  it  into  vigorous  growth,  while  mysterious  nature,  work 
ing  by  unseen  forces,  formed  the  cavity  at  its  root,  where  Andros  never 
dreamed  of  seeking  the  missing  parchment. 

The  original  Liberty  Tree  was  one  of  a  grove  of  elms  in  Boston,  which  has 
long  since  given  place  to  bricks  and  mortar.  The  inscription  on  its  trunk 
brought  it  under  the  displeasure  of  the  British,  who  cut  it  down  in  1774. 
It  has  been  characteristically  recorded  by  a  Yankee  that  it  furnished  four 
teen  cords  of  wood.  But  the  flame  it  kindled  the  British  could  not  quench. 
Every  town  in  "the  original  thirteen"  consecrated  a  tree  to  liberty.  A 
live-oak  in  Charleston  was  the  rallying  point  of  the  South  Carolina  patriots 


542  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

in  the  days  of  stamp-act  excitement.  Here  did  Christopher  Gadsden  raise 
hi-  nlot  airain-t  oppression,  and  for  this  very  reason  the  live-oak  shared 
the  fate  of  tin-  elm  Mt  Koston.  Sir  Henry  Clinton  ordered  its  demolition  in 
17-".  It  is  not  said  how  many  i-onls  it  yielded,  but  enough  remained  of  the 
stump  to  furnish  cane-heads,  as  heirlooms,  and  a  hallot-box,  presented  to 
the  "  '7>'>  A--nriation,"  but  which  was  unfortunately  consumed  in  the  confla 
gration  of  1838. 

How  long  shall  Richmond's  Seven  Sighing  Pines  whisper  the  story  of 
that  "glorious  day  in  .June"?  Yea,  though  their  branches  wither  and  their 
trunks  decay,  thrir  voice  still  will  echo  amid  the  ruins  of  a  nation's  shat 
tered  hopes,  like  that  faint  murmur  of  the  multitude  heard  at  nightfall  in 
the  Alhambra's  haunted  courts. 

"  Old  trees,"  says  an  English  writer,  "  without  the  aid  of  an  oracle  to  con 
secrate  them,  seem  to  have  been  some  of  the  most  natural  objects  of  that 
contemplative  and  melancholy  regard  which  "easily  passes  into  superstitious 
veneration."  Erasmus  could  not  be  convinced  that  trees  felt  not  the  first 
stroke  of  the  axe ;  and  Evelyn,  who  so  revered  the  British  oaks,  says  he 
could  never  hear  the  groans  of  a  falling  tree  without  a  feeling  of  pity.  How 
pathetically  does  he  record  his  vexation  of  spirit  at  the  demolition  of  that 
"  most  glorious  and  impenetrable  holly-hedge,"  at  Sayes  Court,  through 
which  it  was  the  Czar  Peter's  pleasure  to  ride  in  a  wheel-barrow!  The 
"  tongues  in  trees  "  sometimes  babbled  unto  deaf  ears :  the  Vandal  from  the 
Baltic,  to  whom,  in  an  evil  hour,  Evelyn  lent  his  mansion,  had  little  regard 
for  any  forest-growth,  save  that  he  found  well-seasoned  under  a  carpenter's 
lumber-shed. 

The  legends  of  classic  antiquity  are  rich  in  that  beautiful  sympathy  which 
man  finds  in  nature.  We  read  of  the  Babylonian  mulberry,  of  which  the 
fruit  turned  red  with  the  blood  of  Pyramus  and  Thisbe;  the  bare  almond- 
tree  of  I'hyllis  the  forlorn,  bursting  into  leaf  at  the  touch  of  her  late  return 
ing  lover;  and  of  that  spiry  group  upon  the  tomb  of  Protesilaus  by  the  Hel 
lespont,  that  ever,  as  they  grew  tall  enough  to  catch  a  view  of  Troy's  fatal 
shore,  shrank  and  withered  at  the  sight.  Therefore  would  it  seem  that  poets 
have  a  prescriptive  right  to  make  them  friends  among  the  trees,  and  doubt 
less  the  poets  of  every  age  and  of  every  clime  have  been  enamored  of  a 
hamadryad.  We  know  that  a  laurel  grew  spontaneously  upon  the  tomb  of 
Virgil,  or  perchance  some  " light- winged  dryad  of  the  trees"  planted  it 
there,  to  die  a  martyr  at  the  hands  of  the  admirers  of  the  Mantuau  bard. 
And  the  Persians  tell  us  the  nightingales  sing  sweetest  in  the  boughs  that 
shadow  Rocknabad,  where  Ilattz  sat. 

In  the  grounds  of  l>ormington  Castle,  whence  the  "morning-star  of  song" 
sent  forth  his  sweet  niu-ic  to  the  world,  an  oak  as  late  as  the  days  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  was  known  by  the  name  of  Chaucer's  Oak.  In  its  shadow,  it  is 
said,  he  wrote  many  of  his  later  poems,  and  to  the  memory  of  Edward  and 
Philippa  he  left  two  green  monuments  in  the  "King's  Oak"  and  the 
"  Queen's  Oak,"  which  he  named  for  them. 


E.    W.    BELLAMY.  543 

The  three-peaked  hill  of  Eildon,  above  the  town  of  Melrose,  once  nour 
ished  in  its  soil  the  tree  under  which  stood  Thomas  of  Ercildoun,  poet  and 
seer,  while  he  delivered  his  prophecies  to  a  credulous  people.  This  tree 
exists  no  longer ;  but  the  spot  is  marked  by  a  stone  that  takes  its  name  from 
the  Eildon  Tree. 

Shakspeare  conferred  an  immortality  upon  the  mulberry  he  planted  in 
his  garden  at  Stratford  that  Francis  Gastrell  could  not  take  away.  The 
infamy  of  this  man  shall  endure  as  long  as  the  fame  of  the  tree  he  so  ruth 
lessly  destroyed.  Well  did  he  deserve  the  execrations  that  followed  him 
through  the  streets  of  Shakspeare's  native  town.  The  mulberry  shares  the 
honor  of  Shakspeare's  favor  with  a  crab-tree  on  the  roadside  from  Stratford 
to  Bedford.  The  reputation  of  this  town  may  be  divined  from  its  sobriquet 
of  "  drunken  Bedford ; "  the  ale  brewed  here  tripped  up  the  poet's  home- 
returning  feet,  and  laid  him  low  in  the  shadow  of  this  tree  to  pass  the  night. 
Herne's  Oak,  too,  in  Windsor  Forest,  owes  far  more  of  its  fame  to  the  airy 
creatures  of  the  poet's  brain  than  to  the  frightful  spectre  of  the  horned 
hunter  that  haunted  there  on  winter  nights.  It  was  cut  down  in  1795  by 
the  king's  order,  being  totally  decayed. 

Penshurst,  in  Kent,  boasts  of  "Sir  Philip  Sidney's  Oak,"  where  the  hero 
of  Zutphen  loitered  in  the  shade,  nurturing  those  noble  sentiments  that  beau 
tified  his  life  and  were  the  ornament  of  his  death. 

Pope,  who  did  so  much  to  improve  the  English  taste  in  gardening,  has 
not  left  his  fame  destitute  of  sylvan  monuments.  Seven  miles  from  Wind 
sor,  in  the  village  of  Binfield,  was  a  neat  brick  building,  which  England's 
great  satirist  describes  as  his  "paternal  cell"  : 

"  A  little  house  with  trees  a-row, 
And,  like  its  master,  very  low." 

A  short  distance  from  this  house,  amid  a  grove  of  beeches,  stood  one  favored 
tree,  where  this  forest-warbler,  recumbens  sub  tegmine  fagi,  won  his  early 
fame.  It  is  represented  as  a  huge  bare  trunk,  stretching  forth  one  attenu 
ated  branch ;  it  bears  the  inscription,  "  Here  Pope  sung,"  cut  in  large  letters 
in  the  bark,  and  for  many  years  annually  renewed  by  the  care  of  Lady 
Gower,  of  Workingham.  But  the  willow,  the  far-famed  weeping-willow  of 
the  Twickenham  Villa,  died  of  old  age  in  1801.  It  was  a  cherished  foundling, 
a  hardy  twig  bound  round  some  precious  curiosity  from  a  foreign  land. 
Pope  reared  it  in  that'  renowned  garden  where  he  amused  himself  "  planting 
for  posterity,"  and  this  little  twig  from  the  banks  of  the  Bosphorus  sent 
forth  its  shoots  all  over  England,  and  even  into  the  gardens  of  the  Empress 
of  Russia. 

There  is  an  ancient  forest  on  the  banks  of  Ouse,  whither  the  bard  of  Ol- 
ney  often  strayed,  soothing  his  melancholy  in  sweet  converse  with  nature. 
Within  the  hollow  of  Yarkley  Oak  he  would  sit  for  hours 


544  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

•  \V:th  hearers  none, 
Or  prompter,  save  the  scene," 

pondering  the  beauties  of  Kilwick  and  Dinglebury,  that  he  knew  so  well 
how  to  make  "  live  in  description  and  look  green  in  song."  Yardley  Oak 
was  known  for  ages  by  the  name  of  "Judith  ;"  it  is  supposed  that  it  was 
planted  by  Judith,  niece  of  William  the  Conqueror,  who  received  the  coun 
ties  of  Northampton  and  Huntingdon  for  her  dower.  The  fame  that  attaches 
to  this  oak  threatens  to  prove  its  destruction,  and  the  Marquis  of  North 
ampton,  upon  whose  estate  it  stands,  has  been  obliged  to  threaten  with  the 
penalties  of  the  law  all  those  who  shall  injure  or  deface  it. 

An  elm  in  the  church-yard  of  Harrow-on-the-Hill  grows  by  a  tomb  which 
is  still  known  there  as  "  Byron's  tomb."  Here  sat  the  incipient  poet  in  the 
happy  school-clays,  "and  frequent  mused  the  twilight  hours  away."  Thus 
lie  wrote  of  it  years  afterward,  when  his  heart  yearned  for  the  days  that 
would  never  come  again.  At  Newstead  he  planted  an  oak,  with  which  he  con 
nected  his  own  fate,  and  which  he  celebrated  in  verse  when  he  found  it  pin 
ing  from  neglect. 

Romance,  too,  has  cast  her  spell  upon  the  gardens  and  the  groves,  and  tells 
strange,  delightful  tales  of  the  hamadryads'  power  over  men,  of  groans  from 
hollow  oaks,  and  trees  that  wither  at  the  memory  of  horrid  deeds. 

Abderaman  the  Just,  in  the  loneliness  of  his  grandeur,  turned  from  the 
pomp  and  magnificence  with  which  he  had  surrounded  himself  at  Cordova, 
to  indulge,  in  the  shade  of  his  date-tree,  sweet  memories  of  Araby  the  Blest, 
the  land  for  which  his  soul  was  sick. 

Xerxes  once  stopped  his  vast  army  to  pay  court  to  a  plane-tree,  decking  it 
with  gold  and  gems  and  the  gay  fabrics  of  the  Eastern  looms;  and  a  Roman 
consul  cherished  a  beech-tree  under  which  he  slept,  and  often  refreshed  it.s 
roots  with  wine.  This  was  a  common  practice  among  the  Romans,  and 
Caligula  may  have  done  the  same  to  that  huge  palm  they  called  his  "  nest,'' 
where  he  was  wont  to  assemble  his  parasites,  who  could  enjoy  the  luxury  of 
the  shadow  and  the  breeze,  but  into  whose  callous  hearts  the  sweet  lessons 
of  benevolence  taught  by  trees  never  found  an  entrance. 

Louis  le  Debonnaire  whiled  away  one  pleasant  hour,  we  may  safely  aflirm, 
planting  the  rose-tree  by  the  church-walls  of  Heidelberg,  forgetting  the 
eares  of  state  and  his  rebellious  sons.  Many  long  years  after  his  broken 
heart  had  gone  to  its  refuge  in  the  island-tomb  of  the  Rhine,  his  rose-tree 
continued  to  flourish  and  to  bloom, —  only  a  few  years'  since  it  was  reported 
as  still  vigorously  climbing  the  church-walls.  A  rose-tree  of  the  ninth  cen 
tury  well  may  challenge  credulity,  but  this  rose  would  hardly  smell  as  sweet 
by  any  other  name. 

Neither  the  historian  nor  the  traveller  would  seek  for  the  holly-bush  of 
Bosworth  Field,  yet  is  there  not  the  good  old  English  proverb,  • "  Cleave  to 
the  crown  though  it  hang  on  a  bush,"  to  testify  to  the  fact  that  Lord  Stanley 


E.    W.    BELLAMY.  545 

did  not  find  the  crown  in  the  mire,  but  saw  it  glittering  in  a  holly-bush, 
where  a  peasant  hung  it  when  it  fell  from  Richard's  head?  This  proverb 
was  first  spoken  in  1485,  and  who  would  not  rather  believe  it  than  all  the 
histories  ever  written? 

On  the  borders  of  the  elf-haunted  forests  of  the  Vosges,  a  voice  prophetic, 
that  could  not  speak  unto  the  dull  ear  of  Charles,  stirred  the  aspiring  heart 
of  the  innkeeper's  daughter.  Far  away  the  tumult  of  battle  raged  over 
desolated  France ;  near  by  her  young  companions  pursued  their  rustic  sports ; 
but  Joan  sat  silent  by  the  fountain,  while,  among  the  leaves  of  the  lime 
bending  over  her,  she  heard  the  Archangels,  Michael  and  Gabriel,  promising 
victory. 

Tradition  tells  a  fearful  story  of  a  hollow  oak  among  the  mountains  of 
Merionethshire :  the  ferocious  Glyndwr  here  hid  away  the  body  of  the 
murdered  Sele,  until  the  oak  groaned  and  drooped  under  the  curse  of  its 
awful  secret, 

"  And  to  this  day  the  peasant  still 

With  cautious  fear  avoids  the  ground, 
In  each  wild  branch  a  spectre  sees, 
And  trembles  at  each  rising  sound." 

However  the  story  of  Jane  McCrea  be  told,  the  pine-tree  is  still  standing 
near  Fort  Edward,  though  blighted  by  the  memory  of  the  piteous  tragedy 
enacted  in  its  shade. 

After  these  wild  stories,  how  pleasant  it  is  to  fancy  the  doughty  Peter  Stuy- 
vesant  issuing  from  his  yellow  brick  house  on  genial  afternoons,  to  sun  his 
silver-embossed  leg  of  wood  under  the  veteran  pear-tree,  while  the  smoke 
of  the  distant  city  curled  over  the  trees  in  the  "  Bowerie  Lane" !  Haply  the 
tree  made  a  compact  with  Peter  to  stay  and  watch  the  city's  growth.  The 
companions  of  the  orchard  fled,  dismayed  and  stifled  by  the  march  of  im 
provement  that,  gorgon-like,  turned  all  to  stone,  but  dauntlessly  the  pear- 
tree  stood  its  ground,  defying  the  stones  that  usurped  the  carpet  of  clover 
and  grass  at  its  feet,  heralding  the  spring,  as  was  its  old-time  custom,  with 
fair  white  blossoms,  and  ripening  every  autumn  fewer  and  fewer  of  the  old 
Dutch  governor's  favorite  fruit,  while  the  mighty  city  strode  behind  it. 

Who  has  not  seen  Cupid's  foot-prints  on  a  tree,  the  mystic  hearts  and 
darts — signs  by  which  the  ubiquitous  little  god  may  be  traced  even  along  the 
walls  of  doomed  Pompeii.  These  sylvan  graffiti  mark  that  curious  crisis  in 
a  man's  life  when  he  is  prompted  to  study  the  language  of  flowers,  and  to 
make  a  confidant  of  a  hamadryad. 

In  the  garden  of  the  Generalife,  "  the  house  of  love,"  as  the  name  signi 
fies,  the  cypresses  of  the  Moors  yet  stand ;  among  them  is  the  famous  Cipres 
della  Regina  Sultana,  where  the  fair  prisoner  of  the  harem  held  her  stolen 
interviews  with  her  lover,  Abencerrages.  It  may  have  been  by  this  very 
3 


516  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

tree  that  he  took  the  fatal  step  into  the  Sultana's  balcony  which  brought  a 
bloody  death  upon  so  many  of  his  tribe. 

The  ill-starred  Duke  of  Mmimouth  carved  upon  a  tree  in  Nettlestede  Park 
the  simple  name  "Henrietta,"  a  touching  monument  to  the  lady  of  his 
love.  Little  he  thought,  while  he  shaped  the  letters,  what  a  charm  their 
fate  would  bequeath  unto  this  tree. 

The  melancholy  Vanessa,  at  Marley  Abbey,  was  accustomed  to  plant  a 
laurel  in  her  garden,  with  her  own  hands,  to  commemorate  the  vi>it~  of 
Swift.  The  garden  is  crowded  with  these  witnesses  of  the  double-dealing 
dean's  perfidy. 

"  All  under  the  greenwood  tree,"  memories  of  robber-life  cluster  thickly. 
In  the  lawless  days  of  these  mira  gens,  socii  arborum,  when  the  judges  went 
on  their  circuit,  they  were  accompanied  by  a  strong  guard  of  armed  men. 
A  great  oak  between  Carlisle  and  Newcastle  was  long  remembered  as  the 
>pot  where  this  cavalcade  were  accustomed  to  halt  for  dinner. 

Epping  Forest  was  so  dreaded  a  robber-haunt  that  no  person  dared  pass 
through  it  alone.  It  lay  to  the  north  of  London,  and  near  the  city  bounds 
\\as  the  famous  Fairlop  Oak,  of  which  the  boughs  stretched  out  so  wide. 
Here  the  Sunday  fairs  were  held,  and  mountebanks  and  dancing-girls 
amused  the  idle  crowd,  while  the  denizens  of  the  greenwood  mingled  un 
known  among  them.  Fairlop  Oak  is  not  now  to  be  found  in  Epping  Forest, 
but  in  the  church  of  St.  Pancras,  where  it  forms  the  pulpit. 

The  oaks  of  Clipstone  and  of  Welbeck  Parks  are  linked  with  the  memory  of 
Robin  Hood.  Clipstone  Park,  the  property  of  the  Duke  of  Portland,  ex 
isted  before  the  Conquest,  and  Robin  Hood's  Trysting-tree,  the  gnarled 
Parliament  Oak,  is  1,500  years  old.  The  Duke's  Walking-stick,  in  AY'elbeck 
Park,  is  perhaps  the  tallest  of  trees,  being  higher  than  Westminster  Abbey. 
In  the  same  park  is  the  famous  Greendalc  Oak,  with. an  archway  through 
its  trunk,  once  wide  enough  to  admit  a  carriage,  but  slowly  and  steadily 
dosing  up.  Trees  take  strange  freaks  sometimes,  and  we  will  no  more  doubt 
the  pictures  of  the  willow  by  Napoleon's  tomb,  that,  leaning  on  a  stump,  cast 
his  shadow  on  the  sky,  than  we  doubt  the  existence  of  those  enchanted  and 
aerial  Moors  guarding  the  treasures  of  the  Sierras  of  Spain.  We  know  the 
cypress  that  was  blown  down  on  the  estate  of  Vespasian  got  upon  its  roots 
again,  only  because  Vespasian  was  to  be  blessed  with  grandeur  and  pros 
perity. 

Among  those  trees  which  kept  open  house,  as  it  were,  the  Talbot  Yew,  of 
Tankereley  Park,  would  permit  a  man  on  horseback  to  turn  about  very  com 
fortably  within  its  hollow  boll,  but  the  Caztarjno  dc'  cento  Cavafli  surpasses  this 
by  ninety-nine  horsemen  ;  whether  Queen  Joanna  and  her  one  hundred  at 
tendants  could  comfortably  turn  about  within  the  bark  of  that  hospitable 
of  Mount  .(Etna,  where  they  were  sheltered  from  the  rain,  it  is  ha/.ard- 
ous  to  declare.  It  is  certain  that  not  quite  one  hundred  years  ago  a  little 
hut  was  built  within  its  enormous  hollow  for  the  accommodation  of  those 


E.    W.    BELLAMY.  547 

engaged  in  gathering  and  preserving  the  chestnuts.  The  Sicilians  call  this 
"  the  oldest  of  trees,"  and  as  there  is  no  possibility  of  estimating  its  age, 
they  run  little  risk  of  contradiction.  Nevertheless,  the  vague  and  wavering 
belief  excited  by  this  assertion  fades  utterly  away  in  the  shadow  of  the  six 
thousand  years  M.  Decaudolle  assigns  to  the  cypress  of  Santa  Maria  de  Tecla, 
near  Oaxaca.  The  Pre- Adamites  might  have  dwelt  beneath  its  boughs  in 
the  days  when  Jan-ben-Jan  ruled  the  Genii.  Had  the  sloe-thorn,  which 
took  root  and  bore  fruit  in  the  shepherd's  breast,  belonged  to  this  era  of  mar 
vels,  the  Archbishop  of  Tarragon  had  not  testified  in  vain  to  the  truth  of 
the  only  story  of  the  trees  at  which  credulity  grows  restive. 

The  reverence  for  aged  trees  is  not  confined  to  the  Philippines,  though  all 
do  not  believe  them  to  be  the  chosen  abodes  of  ancestors.  It  has  been  the 
amusement  of  the  learned  to  -count  the  rings  in  transverse  sections  of  trunks, 
and  all  the  world  listens  and  applauds.  To  be  really  venerable,  a  tree  must 
reckon  its  age,  not  by  years,  but  centuries.  After  M.  Decandolle's  statement, 
one  will  readily  believe  that  the  cypress  exceeds  all  trees  in  longevity.  A 
cypress  in  the  garden  of  Chapultepec  is  considered  by  Humboldt  to  be  up 
ward  of  5,000  years  old.  The  cypress  of  Somma,  in  Lombardy,  sinks  into  in 
significance  before  these  veterans  of  Mexico;  it  is  only  1,900  years  old,  but  it 
lived  in  the  time  of  Julius  Ca?sar,  and  Napoleon  himself  turned  out  of  his 
way,  when  he  made  the  road  of  the  Simplon,  to  avoid  interfering  with  it. 
A  yew  at  Braburn,  Kent,  is  computed  to  have  seen  3,000  years,  and  one  at 
Fortingal,  in  Scotland,  very  nearly  as  many.  But  as  long  as  a  stump  stands 
upon  Lebanon  or  Olivet,  it  can  never  be  true  that  our  reverence  for  aged 
trees  is  in  proportion  to  the  years  they  number.  The  "  glory  of  Lebanon  " 
is  reduced  to  twelve  gigantic  cedars ;  "  their  great  age,"  says  an  American 
traveller,  "  is  strikingly  apparent  in  their  gnarled  and  time-worn  trunks." 
The  best  authorities  are  agreed  that  this  grove,  which  is  found  at  Bisharri, 
nearly  opposite  Tripoli,  contains  the  original  growth  of  Libanus,  of  which 
Isaiah  spake  so  eloquently.  The  praise  of  the  prophet  is  all-sufficient  for 
their  fame,  but  the  Arabs  of  the  Mount  tell  many  strange  stories  of  miracles 
enacted  in  their  shade,  and  the  petty  vanity  of  man  has  cut  away  the  bark 
in  many  places,  and  scarred  the  white  and  fragrant  wood  with  names. 
Isaiah's  Mulberry-tree,  which  is  supposed  to  mark  the  spot  where  he  was 
sawn  asunder,  stands,  or  did  once  stand,  at  the  end  of  the  causeway  built 
across  the  mouth  of  the  Tyropceon,  that  deep  ravine  which  intersects  Jeru 
salem  from  north  to  south. 

The  olives  of  Gethsemane  are  eight  in  number,  enclosed  within  a  wall 
and  strictly  guarded.  In  the  shadows  of  this  sacred  grove,  where  Christ 
uttered  his  sublime  and  touching  prayer,  there  comes  a  vision  of  that  Tree 
of  Life  the  beloved  disciple  beheld  on  the  Isle  of  Patmos :  "  and  the  leaves 
of  the  tree  were  for  the  healing  of  the  nations."  In  the  New  Jerusalem 
there  shall  not  lack  man's  pleasant  companion  of  the  garden  and  the  grove. 


MISS  MARY  A.  CRUSE. 

MISS  CRUSE  is  a  native  of  Huntsville,  Alabama,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  and  hospitable  little  cities  of  the  "  Southland."   Charles 
Laii man,  in  one  of  his  volumes,  thus  alludes  to  this  little  city: 

"  It  occupies  an  elevated  position,  and  is  hemmed  in  with  high  hills,  from  the 

summit  of  which  it  presents  an  uncommonly  picturesque  appearance 

It  is  supplied  with  the  best  of  water  from  a  mammoth  spring,  which  gushes 
from  a  rock  in  the  centre  of  the  town ;  and  this,  with  the  array  of  from  one 
to  two  hundred  saddle-horses  which  are  daily  collected  around  the  county 
court-house  square,  ought  to  be  mentioned  as  among  the  features  of  the 
place.  But  on  becoming  acquainted  with  the  people  of  Huntsville,  the 
stranger  will  find  that  they  are  the  leading  character." 

This  was  an  ante-bellum  view,  yet  in  this  latter  particular  the  people 
are  not  changed.  The  Cruse  family  are  from  Maryland,  and  one  that 
would  take  position  anywhere  for  their  refinement  and  peculiar  spright- 
liness  of  intellect.  Sam  Cruse,  as  he  was  universally  termed,  Miss 
Mary  Anne's  father,  was  a  man  of  great  probity  and  manliness  of 
character,  one  of  the  first  citizens  of  Huntsville.  In  the  person  of 
Mr.  William  Cruse,  an  odd  old-baohelor  uncle,  the  town  of  Huntsville 
will  long  remember  an  unfailing  fund  of  witticisms  and  quaint  pecu 
liarities  which  will  render  his  memory  delightful.  "  Billy  Cruse  "  was 
a  curiosity,  an  oddity,  a  genius,  but  leaving  his  fame,  however,  entirely 
to  tradition. 

Miss  Cruse,  even  at  school,  began  to  distinguish  herself,  by  the  stu- 
diousness  of  her  deportment  and  the  rapidity  with  which  she  acquired 
her  tasks.  Even  then  the  germ  of  the  future  authoress  might  be  dis 
covered.  She  frequently  indulged  in  poetic  flights  when  very  young, 
in  which  the  partial  eye  of  friendship  found  buds  of  future  promise, 
tin  nigh  I  believe  she  has  not  in  maturer  years  given  any  of  her  poetry 
publicity.  She  is  highly  cultivated  and  a  fine  classical  scholar.  She 
is  a  woman  of  warm  friendships,  rather  secluded,  however,  in  her  tastes ; 
lavishing  her  sentiments  upon  a  choice  few,  of  great  uprightness  and 

548 


MARY    A.    CRUSE.  549 

enthusiasm  of  character.  It  was  in  part  through  her  exertion  and 
earnest  work  in  the  cause  that  the  Sunday-school  and  Church  of  the 
Nativity,  at  Huntsville,  have  increased  in  numbers  and  usefulness. 
Her  books,  entitled  "  The  Little  Episcopalian,"  and  "  Bessie  Melville," 
a  sequel  to  the  former,  show  the  beauties  of  religion,  are  pleasingly 
written,  and  were  and  are  very  popular  among  Sabbath-school  scholars 
and  children  of  a  larger  growth.  The  writer  acknowledges  to  have 
read  those  volumes  with  pleasure  and  profit  not  many  years  ago. 
These  tales  were  written  more  especially  for  the  Sabbath-school  of  the 
Church  of  the  Nativity. 

During  the  "  war,"  when  Huntsville  was  occupied  by  Federal  troops, 
Mr.  Sam  Cruse  was  one  of  the  old  citizens  who  was  sent  to  "  Dixie  " 
on  very  short  notice,  because  he  loved  his  Southern  country  too  well 
to  declare  himself  against  it.  We  believe  Miss  Cruse  accompanied 
him,  and  they  were  "  refugees  "  for  many  months. 

Since  the  close  of  the  war,  (1866,)  Miss  Cruse  has  published  her 
most  ambitious  work,  "  Cameron  Hall :  A  Story  of  the  Civil  War." 

"  A  story,"  the  author  modestly  tells  the  reader,  "  which  was  completed 
before  the  termination  of  the  war,  the  result  of  which,  so  different  from  our 
anticipations,  seemed  at  first  to  necessitate  a  change,  or  at  least  a  modifica 
tion  of  many  of  the  opinions  and  hopes  confidently  expressed  by  some  of 
the  characters.  Upon  reflection,  however,  it  was  decided  to  leave  it  as  it  is  ; 
a  truthful  picture,  as  it  is  believed  to  be,  not  only  of  the  scenes  and  events 
which  occurred  immediately  around  the  author's  home,  but  also  of  the  inner 
thoughts  and  feelings,  the  hopes  and  expectations,  in  a  word,  the  animus  of 
the  Southern  heart." 

And  "  Cameron  Hall,"  which  we  are  pleased  to  say  was  a  success, 
is,  as  the  author  says,  "  a  work  belonging  rather  to  truth  than  to  fic 
tion,  —  a  claim  which  will  be  acknowledged  by  thousands  of  hearts  in 
our  'Southland.'" 

The  "  Round  Table,"  a  New  York  journal  that  is  not  at  all  partial 
to  anything  from  the  South,  and  not  near  as  consistent  and  reliable  a 
"  Review  "  as  the  "  Nation,"  the  latter  being  very  Radical  in  politics, 
but  just  in  literature,  attacks  "  Cameron  Hall  "  in  a  very  savage  man 
ner.  It  says : 

"To  any  one  who  is  at  once  a  rebel  and  an  Episcopalian,  we  unhesitat 
ingly  recommend  '  Cameron  Hall.'  It  is  hard  to  decide  where  to  commence 
enumerating  its  undesirable  characteristics.  Perhaps  the  most  apparent  is  a 


500  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

preternatural  long-winded IH-S."   (And  the  "Round  Table"  continues  at  some 
length.) 

"Cameron  Hull"  would  be  improved  by  judicious  pruning:  there 
b  too  much  of  it  —  yet  it  is  so  pure  and  fresh.  To  read  it  after  reading 
:i  >.  n-ation  novel,  is  like  getting  up  early  in  the  morning:  it  was  very 
hard  to  start,  and  awful  dull  and  sleepy  to  dress  in  the  shuttered,  dark 
room  ;  but  once  up  and  out,  how  fresh  and  pure  and  sweet!  There 
is  something  so  earnest  and  unsullied  in  it. 

Miss  Cruse,  like  all  Southern  women,  was  a  loser  by  the  war;  but 
she  wasted  no  time  in  idly  repining,  and  is  teaching  the  "  young  idea 
how  to  shoot "  in  her  pleasant  home  at  the  foot  of  "  Monte  Sano." 
And  she  is  appreciated  and  loved,  quietly  going  on  the  even  tenor  of 
her  way. 


THE  WAKING  OF  THE  BLIND  GIRL  BY  THE  TONES  OF  THE 
GRAND  ORGAN. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  to  Switzerland,  Charles?  "  asked  Uncle  John. 
.  sir." 

"  Then  it  will  be  worth  while  for  you  to  go  with  us.  I  will  tell  you, 
Charles,  and  would  have  told  you  before;  but  I  don't  want  Agnes  to  know 
what  she  is  going  for,  since  surprise  will  add  to  her  pleasure.  In  the  quiet 
old  town  of  Fribourg  there  is  a  cathedral  containing  an  organ  which  has 
but  one  superior  in  Europe,  and  an  organist  whose  marvellous  execution  is 
quite  as  wonderful.  It  is  the  only  pleasure  that  I  know  on  the  Continent 
that  can  be  enjoyed  by  the  blind  as  much  as  by  those  who  can  see;  and  I 
am  especially  anxious  that  the  child,  who  has  been  disappointed  in  being 
able  to  recover  her  sight,  should  at  least  enjoy  that.  Were  it  not  for  this,  I 
would  go  home  in  the  next  steamer." 

They  reached  Fribourg  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  Uncle  John  was 
rejoiced  that  they  had  at  last  arrived  at  their  destination,  and  he  determined 
to  remain  there  until  Agnes  should  be  thoroughly  rested. 

As  they  drove  rapidly  through  the  streets,  Charles  saw  enough  to  excite 
his  curiosity,  and  make  him  anxious  to  study  in  detail  the  features  of  this 
sinirnlar-looking  place.  Its  situation  is  most  romantic,  the  town  being 
divided  by  immense  ravines,  spanned  by  bridges,  two  of  which  are  suspen 
sion  brides,  the  only  Jink  to  bind  this  quaint  old  town  to  the  present. 
F.verything  else  seems  to  In-long  to  the  far-di>tant  past,  and  is  black  with 
the  smoke,  and  dust,  and  mould  of  age.  Upon  one  of  these  bridges  Charles 


MARY    A.    CRUSE.  "651 

stood,  and  looked  with  wonder  into  the  ravine  below,  where  men  looked 
almost  as  small  as  children.  The  bridge  is  said  to  be  as  high  above  the 
street  underneath  it  as  the  precipice  of  Niagara,  and  it  certainly  seemed  to 
our  traveller  to  be  a  dizzy  height.  He  was  so  absorbed  that  the  gathering 
clouds  failed  to  attract  his  attention,  when  all  at  once  he  was  aroused  by  the 
large,  heavy  drops  of  rain.  The  storm  came  as  suddenly  and  violently  as 
only  it  can  come  in  mountain  countries,  and  by  the  time  he  reached  the 
hotel  it  was  pouring  in  torrents,  with  severe  thunder  and  lightning. 

He  found  Agnes  asleep  upon  the  sofa,  and  Uncle  John  watching  her 
anxiously. 

" I  am  uneasy  about  her,  Charles,"  he  said.  "She  was  so  bright  and  well 
at  Chamouni,  I  thought  that  the  Swiss  air  was  going  to  work  wonders  for 
her ;  but  to-day  she  has  been  more  languid  than  I  have  seen  her  since  she 
left  home." 

"  That  is  nothing.  The  child  is  tired,  and  a  few  days'  rest  will  make  her 
as  strong  as  ever." 

"  Everything  is  adverse  to  my  plans  to-night,  Charles,"  said  Uncle  John, 
going  to  the  window,  and  looking  out  at  the  pouring  rain  and  the  flooded 
streets.  "The  rain  and  her  indisposition  combine  to  upset  a  favorite  project 
of  mine." 

"What  is  that,  sir?" 

"  It  is  an  old  man's  whim,  which  I  know  will  excite  a  smile,  even  if  it 
does  not  awaken  a  doubt  with  regard  to  my  sanity.  For  days  I  have  been 
indulging  a  pleasant  sort  of  dream  about  taking  her  asleep  to  the  cathedral, 
and  having  her  awakened  by  that  wonderful  organ-music.  It  would  be  such 
a  delightful  surprise  to  the  child !  You  don't  know  how  much  I  dislike  to 
give  up  the  idea." 

"The  plan  is  rather  impracticable,  sir,"  answered  Charles,  smiling,  "espe 
cially  on  such  a  night  as  this." 

"  Her  condition,  Charles,  alone  renders  it  impracticable.  If  I  were  cer 
tain  that  she  was  only  tired,  and  not  sick,  I  would  not  hesitate  to  try  it,  for 
I  know  that  I  could  protect  her  from  the  rain." 

"Why  not  wait  until  to-morrow  night,  as  we  are  to  stay  here  some  days?  " 

"  Because  the  organist  will  not  play  again,  either  to-morrow  or  the  next 
night.  He  is  a  professor  of  music  in  Berne,  and  only  comes  here  on  certain 
nights  in  the  week  to  play  for  the  benefit  of  travellers,  for  many  lovers  of 
music  come  to  Fribourg  especially  to  hear  its  wonderful  performance. 
Besides,  I  want  Agnes  to  hear  the  music  before  she  knows  what  I  brought 
her  here  for." 

"  How  is  she  to  get  to  the  cathedral  ?  " 

"  In  my  arms." 

The  rain  had  temporarily  ceased,  and  Charles  said  if  they  would  go  at 
once  they  could  perhaps  reach  the  cathedral  before  it  rained  again. 


~,~>?  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

It  was  very  dark  when  they  went  into  tin-  street,  and  the  feeble  light  of 
the  lantern  was  almost  i|iienehed  in  tin-  Mirrotinding  gloom.  Uncle  Jolm 
carried  Allies  with  trcntlencss  and  dexterity,  that  showed  he  knew  how  to 
take  rare  <>!'  lier.  When  they  reaehed  the  cathedral,  they  found  the  doors 
not  yet  opened,  ami  they  were  compelled  to  stand  and  wait.  As  one  and 
another  were  added  to  the  waiting  group,  they  looked  with  wonder  and  curi 
osity  upon  the  foreigner  with  his  singular  burden ;  but,  unconscious  that  lie, 
was  the  object  of  interest  or  remark,  lie  leaned  against  the  heavily  carved 
portal,  and  in  his  anxiety  to  keep  Agnes  from  being  awakened,  he  forgot  all 
eNe.  Presently  the  crowd  gave  way  to  a  man  who  approached  with  a  lan 
tern,  and  motioning  Uncle  John  aside,  he  swung  open  the  heavy  doors.  All 
wa>  lilaek  darkness  within,  except  that  in  the  dim  distance  Uncle  John  and 
Charles  saw  one  feeble  ray,  Avhich  they  followed,  until  they  found  it  was  the 
sexton's  lantern,  by  the  light  of  which  he  wras  seating  persons  in  the  other 
end  of  the  church.  By  degrees,  their  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  dark 
ness,  and  looking  around  and  above  them,  where  two  or  three  glimmering 
liirlits  betrayed  the  position  of  the  organ,  they  selected  a  seat  at  a  proper 
di-tance. 

It  was  a  strange  audience  that  was  assembled  in  the  Fribourg  Cathedral 
on  that  stormy  night  —  men  and  women,  and  one  blind  child ;  some  from  a 
distant  continent  beyond  the  sea;  from  Britannia's  Isle;  and  others  who 
were  born  and  reared  in  the  same  old  town  which  had  singularly  enough 
produced  the  sweetest  of  organs  and  the  most  gifted  of  musicians.  There 
they  all  sat  in  the  stillness  and  darkness  of  midnight.  Scarcely  a  whisper 
was  heard,  and  a  reverent  silence  pervaded  the  assembly. 

Presently  the  deep,  trembling  notes  of  the  organ  broke  the  stillness,  and 
deeper,  and  louder,  and  more  tremulous  they  grew,  until  it  was  difficult  to 
believe  that  the  rushing  wind,  of  which  it  was  so  wonderful  an  imitation, 
was  not  sweeping  wildly  through  the  cathedral  aisles.  Uncle  John  felt  a 
thrill  pass  through  Agnes's  frame  as  she  sprang  up  and  called  aloud: 

"  Uncle  John  I " 

He  clasped  her  hand  tightly,  and  whispered : 

"  Here  I  am,  Agnes." 

She  was  satisfied.  She  knew  not,  cared  not  where  she  was,  or  how  she  had 
come  there ;  she  knew  that  Uncle  John  was  with  her,  and  that  she  was  lis 
tening  to  her  own  dear  organ,  and  she  was  happy. 

The  strange  performance  went  on.  Thunder,  lightning,  wind,  and  storm 
exhausted  themselves  in  wild  unearthly  music,  and  then  died  away  in  a  strain 
so  sweet  and  low  that  it  might  almost  have  been  mistaken  for  an  angel's  whis 
per.  Quicker  and  cjtiicker  grew  the  throb  of  the  childish  heart,  and  tighter 
was  the  grasp  with  which  she  clung  to  Uncle"  John,  but  she  did  not  speak. 
It  was  a  double  spell  that  bound  him,  for  he  heard  the  music  through  Agnes's 
ears  and  felt  it  through  her  soul.  Sometimes  its  crushing  power  made  the 
stone  walls  tremble,  and  then  gradually  the  strain  wandered  farther  and 


MARY    A.    CRUSE.  553 

farther  away,  until  all  that  was  left  was  a  soft,  sweet  echo,  so  pure  and  so 
distant  that  it  might  have  been  awakened  in  the  snowy  bosom  of  the  far 
away  Mont  Blanc. 

At  length  there  was  a  long  pause :  artist  and  instrument  seemed  alike  to 
have  exhausted  their  wealth  of  harmony.  Uncle  John's  hand  had  grasped 
Agnes's  shawl,  when  there  stole  through  the  gloom  such  a  strain  of  heavenly 
sweetness  that  his  outstretched  arm  was  arrested,  and  though  he  was  not  un 
familiar  with  this  strange  music,  still  he  listened  in  breathless  wonder,  as  he 
had  done  the  first  time  that  he  ever  heard  it. 

Sweeter  than  the  softest  flute  it  floated  through  the  air,  and  presently 
another  strain  was  interwoven  with  it  —  a  low,  subdued,  liquid  tone  of  the 
human  voice,  that  blended  with  each  organ-note  the  most  exquisite  harmony. 
It  did  not  strike  the  ear ;  the  listener  knew  not  that  it  reached  the  heart 
through  the  medium  of  a  bodily  organ ;  it  seemed  to  melt  and  flow  at  once 
into  the  very  soul. 

Agnes  was  very  still ;  she  clung  closely  to  Uncle  John,  and  scarcely  dared 
to  breathe. 

At  length  it  was  all  over ;  the  last  note  died  away,  and  they  waited,  but 
in  vain,  for  another  awakening.  Presently  a  soft  whisper  said : 

"  Uncle  John,  come  close." 

He  leaned  down,  and  she  asked,  softly : 

"  Uncle  John,  is  it  heaven  ?  " 

He  did  not  reply,  but  the  tears  sprang  to  his  eyes — tears  of  pleasure  at  the 
thought  that  he  should  have  given  her  so  much  happiness. 

The  audience  quietly  dispersed.  The  storm  was  over ;  the  elements  had 
ceased  their  strife,  as  if  to  listen,  and  the  spirit  of  sweet  peace  had  been 
wafted  upon  the  wings  of  that  music  until  it  seemed  to  rest  upon  earth,  and 
air,  and  sky. 


LILIAN  ROZELL  MESSENGER. 

T  ILIAN  T.  ROZELL  was  born  in  Kentucky ;  her  parents  were 
JJ  Virginians,  and  were  both  fond  of  Poetry  and  Music.  Hence  it  is 
not  difficult  to  conjecture  whence  the  daughter's  genius,  for  at  the 
parent  fount  her  young  soul  quaffed.  Her  love  of  nature,  of  the 
beautiful,  the  grand  and  weird,  was  manifested  at  an  age  when  most 
children  think  of  toys  and  sweets.  When  a  little  child,  she  delighted 
in  oratory,  in  climbing  some  elevation  and  imitating  speakers  she  had 
heard,  in  either  prose  or  verse ;  and  when  not  roaming  the  shades  of 
moss-haunted  woody  places,  she  loved  to  fly  a  kite  and  to  shoot  a  bow 
and  arrow.  From  these  early  years  she  was  a  poet,  for  of  all  features 
of  nature's  glory,  the  clouds  always  furnished  her  more  exquisite  en 
joyment  ;  and  the  study  of  astronomy  and  natural  philosophy  dispelled 
so  many  fond  illusions  concerning  the  mystery  of  the  clouds,  that  she 
almost  regretted  knowledge,  and  looked  back  on  ignorance  then  as 
bliss. 

All  of  Miss  RozelFs  family  are  of  a  melancholy,  sensitive,  musical 
temperament ;  and  she  is  not  sanguine,  and  is  often  and  suddenly  the 
victim  of  most  depressing  melancholy:  in  this  particular  she  is  said 
to  be  completely  Byronic,  if  not  his  counterpart  in  genius. 

Considering  tha^t  Miss  Rozell  has  never  had  the  aid  of  a  large 
library,  or  the  advantages  to  be  derived  from  literary  groups,  but 
worked  in  silent  gloom  and  isolation  without  help  or  practical  aid, 
her  verse  cannot  be  expected  to  be  of  a  very  hopeful  strain. 

The  death  of  her  father  caused  a  change  in  her  prospects,  inasmuch 
as  it  was  the  reason  for  the  shortening  of  her  school-days ;  but  she 
expects  to  study  all  her  lifetime  —  not  always  to  sing  her  lays  like  the 
mountain  streams,  but  aim  to  mount  higher  and  higher. 

It  was  after  her  father's  death,  when  everything  seemed  dark  indeed 
around  the  young  girl,  that  she  wrote  her  first  verses,  and  the  subject 
was  "  Night."  She  was  in  her  sixteenth  year  when  the  first  publicity 
\\:is  made  of  her  poems.  Colonel  M.  C.  Gallaway  was  her  "  Fidus 
Achates."  That  true-hearted  gentleman  was  the  first  to  offer  the 
young  poetess  and  orphan  a  sympathetic  hand.  Her  maiden  effusions 

554 


LILIAN    EOZELL    MESSENGER.  555 

appeared  in  the  " Memphis  Avalanche,"  under  the  nom  deplume  of 
"  Zena  Clifton." 

Miss  Rozell  was  married  in  her  seventeenth  year  to  Mr.  Messenger, 
editor  of  a  newspaper  at  Tuscumbia,  North  Alabama  —  a  man  of 
strong,  clear  understanding,  blameless  as  a  man  and  as  a  politician. 
He  died  in  1865,  four  years  after  their  marriage,  leaving  his  young 
widow  and  one  son. 

During  the  war,  when  the  Federal  troops  plundered  Tuscumbia, 
they  took  a  journal  of  manuscripts,  principally  lyrics,  belonging  to 
Mrs.  Messenger.  General  Dodge  tried  to  recover  it,  but  did  not  succeed. 

Mrs.  Messenger  has  contributed  many  beautiful  poems  to  the 
"  Louisville  Journal,"  Memphis  papers,  and  "  New  York  Home  Jour 
nal."  Her  most  ambitious  poems  are  lengthy,  narrative  poems,  yet 
unpublished.  One  of  these  poems  purports  to  be  an  epic,  and  has  for 
its  subject  "Columbus  the  Discoverer."  The  theme  of  a  second  is 
"  Charlotte  Corday  ;  "  and  "  Penelope,  the  Wife  of  Ulysses,"  is  the 
subject  of  a  third. 

Mrs.  Messenger  is  a  very  sweet  and  earnest  poet ;  and  I  verily 
believe,  had  she  been  in  a  Northern  literary  clique,  with  all  the 
advantages  to  be  derived  therefrom,  she  would  now  be  a  particular 
star  in  the  firmament  of  poesy. 

She  is  yet  in  her  youth;  and,  with  a  desire  to  become  a  worthy  con 
tributor  to  her  country's  literature,  to  be  recognized  as  a  devout 
worshipper  in  the  sacred  temple  of  the  Muses,  she  must  succeed.  Says 
she :  "  If  I  can  aid  in  soothing  any  hearts,  or  help  to  inspire  noble 
ambitious  souls,  it  will  be  a  sweet  reward." 

Mrs.  Messenger  possesses  good  musical  talents,  and  has  fine  talent 
for  landscape  painting.  "  Next  to  being  a  great  poet,  I  should  love  to 
be  a  glorious  painter,"  says  she. 

Mrs.  Messenger's  home  is  in  Tuscumbia,  a  small  town  in  the  north 
ern  part  of  Alabama. 


THE  OLD  WHARF. 

AT   PINE  BLUFF,   AKK. 

Sad,  broken,  and  scarred,  with  a  careworn  look, 
It  is  never  a  place  that  a  fay  might  haunt,  » 

This  brown  old  wharf,  where  the  murky  waves 
Forever  in  idle  monotone  chaunt 


556  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

A  story  which  seems  but  nothing  sometimes, 
Save  :i  babbit-  <>!'  foolish  and  quaint  old  rhymes; 
Like  the  broken  fragments  ol'  winds  that  fell 
With  sweet  spring,  swept  to  her  flowery  dell, 

Or  yet  tu  their  deep-toned  caves, 
Whose  soft  blue  gloom  hath  defied  the  sun, 
But  the  love- warm  rays  of  the  moonlight  won. 

Sad,  broken,  and  scarred,  with  its  careworn  look  — 

And  no  one  thinks  it  can  ever  be  more 
Than  the  brown  old  wharf  by  the  idle  waves, 

With  hurrying  cloudlets  passing  o'er; 
But  I  often  think  if  these  could  speak, 
How  its  mummied  secrets  would  crumbling  break, 
And  toll  of  the  thousand  steps  that  passed, 
(In  a  day  near  by,  in  a  far-off  day, 
Which  may  never  return,  or  which  may  be  the  last,) 

And  whisper  of  farewells  again, 
That  divided  true  hearts,  and  severed  true  hands, 
When  over  the  South  and  its  sweet  summer-lands 
Hung  the  fiery  Cross  of  Pain. 

On  the  grim,  gory  mount  of  war  it  gleamed, 

And  woman,  the  weeper,  was  mourning  there, 

One  farewell  cleaving  brave  hearts  and  brave  hands, 

And  fate  seemed  bound  in  the  bands  of  prayer  — 

But  only  seemed ;  and  the  same  waves  tell, 

By  the  old  wharf  brown,  whatever  befell, 

When  their  barks  drew  near,  and  others  sailed  out, 

Far  off  in  the  far-away  ! 

Eyes  there  are,  yet  gazing  through  time's  dim  gray, 
That  is  flecked  with  the  gold  of  that  dawning  day. 

Four  times  and  three,  at  the  old  wharf  brown, 

With  a  cloven  heart  have  I  said  good-bye, 
And  my  secret  left,  and  dreamed  it  the  last, 

While  the  slow  sad  waves  passed  on  with  a  sigh. 
But  once  they  bore  off  a  form  enshrined 
In  death's  dim  dusk  ;  and  once  they  chimed 

To  a  marriage-bell,  on  a  blue  June-day ; 

That,  too,  passed  out  in  the  far-away. 
And  I  sometimes  fear  that  a  welcome  more 
Will  never  come  back  from  the  brown  old  shore, 
Though  an  army  with  banners  of  joy  stood  there, 
Where  the  phantoms  of  hundred  farewells  are. 


LILIAN    EOZELL    MESSENGER.  557 


ICONOCLAST. 

With  the  morn  of  hope,  the  star  of  love, 
And  strength  of  faith,  man  meets  his  life, 
And  hears  the  gentle  music-strife 
Of  rainbow  wings,  and  clouds  that  move 
With  fleecy  feet  through  light  above,       , 

And  songful  winds  that  deftly  leave 
Hints  of  a  hundred  sweets,  which  steal 
From  star-kissed  flowers  while  they  kneel 
In  sun-worship  and  softly  breathe 
Halos  of  prayer  their  brows  to  wreathe ; 

Giving  the  days  new  melody, 
So  that  he  calls  life  very  good ; 
And  carves  in  beauty's  solitude 

Fair  forms  of  that  divinity 

Which  haunts  his  soul  on  land  and  sea. 

These  idols  of  his  fondest  care, 

Close  bound  with  golden  bands  of  love, 
That  all  his  nobler  nature  move, 
He  places  on  the  altars  fair 
Within  his  soul,  and  worships  there, 

Saying,  "  They  're  safe  in  beauty's  dawn, 
Within  this  fane,  —  nor  life  nor  death, 
Nor  any  mist  that  sorrow  hath 
Across  this  radiance  shall  be  drawn 
To  blot  one  star  from  out  my  morn : 


"  Here  'mong  my  idols  I  will  dwell, 

Nor  aught  of  fear  shall  e'er  intrude ; 
Earth  shall  not  touch  my  solitude, 
While  sighs  of  love  that  softly  swell 
Just  sway  my  temple's  silver  bell." 

But  then  a  something  men  call  fate  — 
Perhaps  creation's  negative  — 
Shadows  the  temples  where  they  live, 
Breaking  them  with  its  hand  of  hate, 
And  death  and  woe  within  create. 


558  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Ami  while  this  «l:irk  Iconocla-t 
J>oth  every  idol  break  or  mar, 
"Too  many  images  there  are 

For  perfect  light,"  says  Faith  at  last; 
Go  leave  thine  idols  with  the  past." 


DENIAL. 

The  myrtles  flushed  like  a  crimson  snow 
From  an  evening  crimson  cloud, 
And  a  dew-lipped  rose  half  breathed  aloud, 
"  I  will  kiss  thee,  kiss  thee,  sweet; 
Then  in  thy  veins  will  a  magic  flow, 
And  thou  shalt  forever,  ever  know 
Of  beautiful  mysteries  here  that  meet 
In  the  silken  folds  of  my  heart, 
The  same  which  fill  the  earth  with  mist 
As  they  softly  come  and  go." 

But  I  answered,  "  Nay,  I  have  mysteries  more 
Than  the  human  tongue  can  tell ; 
They  have  built  me  a  sorrow-home  full  well, 
And  I  '11  none  of  thee,  lest  there  may  be 
One  thought  less  for  my  loved  one  gone, 
Gone  forever  from  me." 

The  sweet  stars  came  to  the  dusky  gate 

Of  night,  and  they  whispered  low, 

"  Come  out  unto  us !    Come,  bathe  in  the  glow 

Of  a  soothing,  subtle  fire ! 
With  our  golden  wine  we  wait,  we  wait, 
That  thy  soul  may  drink  and  evermore  hate 
The  old  earth  there  which  hath  bred  thee  woes, 

And  thou  be  lifted  higher. 
We  '\  e  tow'rs  of  gold,  and  kingdoms  of  light, 
Where  all  things  pleasa  ntest  be, 
To  loosen  the  fetters  that  fetter  thee: 
And  never  has  blown  the  breath  of  a  blight 
O'er  our  seas  of  muirical  flame; 
And  hallowed  mysteries,  just  the  same 
As  those  which  link  the  rose's  heart 
To  sea  and  sky  and  our  burnished  hills, 
May  heal  thee  yet,  and  thy  soul,  perplext, 

Be  freed  from  human  ills." 


LILIAN    ROZELL    MESSENGEE.  559 

But  I  said,  "  Not  so ;  for  I  will  not  drink 

Of  your  wisdom's  golden  wine, 

Lest  I  lose  one  thought  of  a  love  divine 

That 's  gone  forever  from  me ; 
For  I  scorn  all  heights  and  depths  that  win 
One  thought  from  the  thoughts  I  nurse  for  him 

Now  gone  forever  from  me." 

A  memory  pale  came  unto  my  soul, 

And  folded  its  wings,  and  said, 

"  O  pilgrim,  if  now  with  me  thou  'It  wed, 

I  '11  feed  thee  on  fragments  sweet 

Of  beautiful  hopes,  and  the  bits  of  wings 

Of  thy  broken  dreams, 

And  echoes  dim  of  the  murmurings 

Of  a  lost  love's  silent  lips : 

I  '11  fan  thee  to  rest  with  sleep's  soft  sigh, 

And  thou  shalt  glide  o'er  a  mystic  deep 

At  last  to  a  day  gone  by, 

Whose  light  was  the  light  of  his  love-lit  eye — • 

And  his  smile  shall  encircle  thee." 

And  I  said,  "  Ah,  yes,  with  thee  I  '11  wed ; 

But  not  with  an  angel  e'en 

Would  I  stay  one  hour,  if  it  came  between 

My  love,  and  my  loved  one  dead ; 
And  in  my  grief,  like  an  autumn-leaf, 
I  could  crush  and  scorn  all  things  that  win. 
One  sweet  thought  which  I  nurse  for  him 

Now  gone  forever  from  me ! " 


SARAH  E.  PECK. 

MRS.  PECK  has,  since  the  close  of  the  war,  contributed  many 
interesting  sketches  to  the  literary  journals  of  the  South ;  and 
principally  excelled  in  sketches  for  children  —  writing  like  a  good, 
true  mother. 

Sarah  Elizabeth  Peck  is  a  native  of  Morgan  County,  Alabama. 

"She  is  industrious,  knits  and  reads  by  day,  and  reads  and  knits  by  night. 
Her  husband  and  children  are  as  often  entertained  by  the  music  of  her  sew 
ing-machine  as  by  the  reading  or  recital  of  some  new  story." 

Mrs.  Peck  was  educated  principally  at  Columbia,  Tennessee.  She 
was  eminently  successful  in  drawing  and  painting,  as  well  as  in  taste 
fully  modelling  figures  in  wax.  Several  years  previous  to  the  war, 
while  in  wretched  health,  confined  to  her  room  most  of  the  time,  she 
amused  the  tedium  of  her  confinement  by  making  extracts  from  her 
readings.  These  she  arranged  alphabetically  under  different  heads. 
The  title  was,  "  A  Dictionary  of  Similes,  Figures,  Images,  Metaphors, 
etc."  She  has  been  engaged  for  some  time  in  preparing  this  work  for 
the  press.  Says  a  friend  of  this  lady,  alluding  to  this  work  : 

"  This  is  truly  an  eclectic  work.  It  is  too  large  for  a  bouquet ;  shall  I  say 
that  it  is  a  garden  into  whose  rich  soil  she  has  transplanted  the  choicest 
cuttings  of  the  most  celebrated  rosaries  ?  " 

Mrs.  Peck's  home  is  near  Trinity  Station,  on  the  Memphis  and 
Charleston  Railroad. 

660 


JULIA  L.  KEYES 

IS  the  eldest  daughter  of  Prof.  N.  M.  Hentz  and  Mrs.  Caroline  Lee 
Hentz,  and  was  born  at  Chapel  Hill,  N.  C.,  in  the  year  1829.  At 
the  time  of  her  birth,  her  father  filled  the  chair  of  modern  languages 
in  the  University  of  North  Carolina,  but,  while  Julia  was  yet  an  in 
fant,  he  resigned  his  professorship  and  removed  to  Cincinnati.  He  did 
not,  however,  remain  here  long,  but  finally  located  in  Florence,  Ala., 
and  in  connection  with  Mrs,  Hentz,  opened  a  school  for  young  ladies. 
It  was  called  Locust  Dell  Academy,  and  soon  became  one  of  the  most 
popular  institutions  in  the  South.  Locust  Dell !  ah  !  it  is  music  to 
the  ear  of  many  matrons  throughout  the  South. 

It  was  at  Locust  Dell  that  the  larger  portion  of  Julia's  childhood 
was  spent.  She  was  an  artless,  happy  little  girl,  beloved-  by  her  asso 
ciates,  and  admired  by  all  who  knew  her  for  the  simplicity  of  her  na 
ture.  With  such  associations,  and  with  such  a  mother,  it  is  not  singu 
lar  that  she  should,  even  at  an  early  age,  have  imbibed  a  literary 
taste;  and  yet  whatever  distinction  she  may  have  attained  has  been  done 
without  the  slightest  expectation  that  her  name  would  be  mentioned 
among  the  female  writers  of  the  South.  No  such  ambition  has  ever 
moved  her  heart  and  pen.  From  Florence,  her  parents  removed  to 
Tuscaloosa,  Ala.,  in  the  year  1842,  and  took  charge  of  the  Female 
Institute  at  that  place.  Tuscaloosa  was  then  the  capital  of  the  State, 
besides  being  the  seat  of  the  University.  The  period  during  which 
her  parents  resided  there  were  days  of  pleasantness  to  Julia.  They 
were  perhaps  the  very  happiest  of  her  girlhood.  Beloved  and  admired 
by  all,  with  scarcely  a  care  to  disturb  her  peace,  her  young  imagination 
painted  the  future  with  hues  even  brighter  and  more  beautiful  than 
those  that  then  adorned  her  sky,  for  a  vision  of  the  Land  of  Flowers 
was  ever  in  her  heart.  She  knew  that  an  abode  would  be  prepared 
for  her  in  that  sunnier  clime,  for  there  was  one,  the  object  of  her  own 
and  her  parents'  choice,  who  would  there  make  himself  a  home. 

From  Tuscaloosa,  Professor  Hentz,  in  1846,  removed  to  Tuskegee, 
Ala.,  where,  in  the  same  year,  Julia  was  united  to  Dr.  J.  W.  Keyes, 
to  whom  for  several  years  her  hand  and  heart  had  been  plighted. 
4  561 


562  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Soon  after,  she  bade  adieu  to  parents  and  home,  and  went  with  her 
husband  to  Florida,  at  that  time  the  place  of  his  residence.  It  was 
here,  in  the  early  years  of  her  marriage,  amid  the  mournful  music  of 
the  pines  and  the  bright  flowers  of  the  far  South,  she  wrote  some  of 
her  sweetest  poems.  She  wrote,  as  we  have  already  intimated,  not  for 
gain  or  glory,  but  from  that  poetic  impulse  of  which  all  true  poetry  is 
born.  It  was,  we  believe,  in  the  third  or  fourth  year  of  her  marriage 
she  composed  those  beautiful  lines,  "  To  My  Absent  Husband."  We 
append  a  few  stanzas : 

I   "  Why  does  my  spirit  now  so  oft 

In  fancy  backward  rove? 
As  beautiful  in  mist  appears 

That  golden  year  of  love. 
Why  do  I  love  to  live  again 

My  first  year's  wedded  life? 
Oh!  I  was  then  so  young  and  glad  — 

A  childlike,  happy  wife.  i 

"Swiftly  these  few  short  years  have  fled, 

And  I  am  happy  yet  ; 
But  oh !  those  bright  and  sunny  days 

My  heart  will  not  forget. 
No  care  had  I  to  make  me  look 

Beyond  those  hours  of  bliss, 
No  griefs  that  only  mothers  have, 

No  moments  such  as  this. 

"And  these  dear  little  ones,  that  bind 

My  heart  so  near  to  earth, 
So  twine  around  me  that  I  biess 

The  hour  that  gave  them  birth. 
And  then,  my  husband,  thou  hast  been 

Kind,  gentle,  true  to  me, 
And  these  bright  living  links  have  drawn 

Me  nearer  unto  thee. 

"This  happiness  is  sweet  and  pure; 

But  then  so  much  of  pain 
Is  mingled  with  our  love  and  joy 

In  this  domestic  chain, 
That  I  am  wont  to  wander 

To  those  bright  sunny  hours 
Win  n  lite  was  joyous,  and  my  path 

Was  ever  strewn  with  flowers: 


JULIA    L.    K  E  Y  E  S.  563 

"But  think  not  that  I  would  again 

My  girlhood's  hours  recall ; 
I  'd  rather  bear  life's  ills  with  thee 

Than  to  be  freed  from  all, 
And  be  without  thy  loving  care, 

Thy  fond,  protecting  arm, 
Thine  ever  constant,  anxious  wish 

To  shelter  me  from  harm." 

A  few  years  passed  quietly  away,  and  she  who  had  been  the  happy, 
hopeful  girl  was  now  a  matron,  immersed  in  the  cares  of  a  household, 
and  that  tender  solicitude  which  never  sleeps  in  a  mother's  breast  was 
hers;  and  yet  in  that  land  where  the  birds  sing  and  the  flowers  bloom 
always,  and  where  the  stars  from  the  deep  azure  sky  seem  to  look  so 
dimly  and  sadly  over  the  stillness  of  earth,  and  where,  too,  the  sound 
of  the  sighing  pines  and  surf-beaten  shores  is  heard,  her  feelings  would 
oft  constrain  her  to  give  expression  to  them  in  verse.  Few,  however, 
of  the  many  poems  written  at  that  period  of  her  life  have  ever  been 
given  to  the  public. 

The  year  of  1856  was  an  eventful  one,  and  one,  too,  of  great  sorrow 
to  Mrs.  Keyes ;  for  in  that  year  she  lost  her  gifted  mother.  She,  too, 
had  wandered  to  this  beautiful  land  ;  for  the  remaining  members  of 
the  family  followed  soon  after  Julia's  marriage.  In  one  of  those  rare 
and  fatal  spells  of  cold  which  cut  down  the  orange  and  lime  trees, 
Mrs.  Hentz  was  attacked  with  pneumonia  —  her  last  illness.  Nor 
was  this  Mrs.  Keyes's  only  bereavement.  In  the  latter  part  of  the 
same  year  her  father,  who  for  several  years  had  been  in  feeble  health, 
died,  and  on  the  same  day  a  beautiful  and  interesting  little  boy  of 
five  years,  to  whom  her  heart  most  tenderly  clung.  And  yet  she  bore 
all  these  heavy  afflictions  in  the  spirit  of  meekness  and  humble  reli 
ance  upon  the  goodness  of  Him  who  "  doeth  all  things  well." 

In  the  year  1857,  Dr.  Keyes  removed  to  Montgomery,  Ala.,  where 
he  had  his  home  until  the  close  of  the  war.  During  her  residence  in 
this  city  of  the  South,  so  "  lovely  for  its  situation,"  her  time  was 
greatly  occupied  in  household  affairs  ;  yet  some  of  her  best  poems 
were  written  in  the  midst  of  these  domestic  cares.  The  writer  of  this 
sketch,  who  was  an  inmate  of  her  home,  has  often  wondered  at  her 
economy  of  time.  After  doing  a  large  amount  of  sewing  in  the  day, 
she  would  sometimes  give  us  a  poem,  composed  while  plying  the 
needle,  and  written  down  at  odd  moments. 


564  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

We  may  here  remark  that  her  poetical  talent  would  probably  never 
have  been  known  beyond  the  home  circle,  had  not  her  husband  drawn 
1'mm  her  portfolio  her  fugitive  pieces  and  given  them  to  the  public,  he 
being,  prrhaps,  her  greatest  admirer.  This,  as  we  may  suppose,  has 
given  her  a  stimulus,  without  which  her  pen  would  remain  idle. 

In  1859,  she  obtained  the  prize  for  the  best  poem  under  sixty  lines 
of  the  "Southern  Field  and  Fireside."  The  poem  is  called  "A  Dream 
of  Locust  Dell,"  and  is  considered  the  most  touchingly  beautiful  of 
all  her  published  productions.  Certainly,  few  can  read  it  without 
bi'ing  touched  by  its  beauty  and  pathos. 

During  the  "  war,"  Doctor  Keyes  was  absent  from  home  —  an  offi 
cer  in  the  army  —  and  Mrs.  Keyes  was  left  with  all  the  cares  of  a 
large  family  upon  her;  and  she  patiently  and  cheerfully  bore  up  under 
all  her  burdens,  for  her  soul  was  strengthened  and  nerved  by  that 
holy  and  active  patriotism  which  clothed  with  such  undying  glory  our 
"  women  of  the  South." 

The  fate  of  war  was  adverse  to  the  cause  he  advocated,  and  Dr. 
Keyes  felt  that  the  South,  under  the  rule  of  its  conquerors,  was  no 
home  for  his  family,  and  he  went  to  Brazil,  where  they  now  reside. 

Above  all  and  beyond  all,  Mrs.  Keyes  trustingly,  steadily,  and 
hopefully  looks  to  a  union  of  all  that  are  dear  to  her  in  that  "  rest 
which  remaiueth  to  the  people  of  God." 


A  DREAM  OF  LOCUST  DELL. 

What  spell  of  enchantment  is  that  which  enthralls  me 
When  winding  the  mystical  mazes  of  dreams? 

What  spirit  is  that  which  alluringly  calls  me, 
And  leads  me  away  over  mountain  and  streams? 

I  see  from  afar  a  rich  landscape  unfolding  — 
A  beautiful  grove  —  a  lake  sleeping  below  — 

'T  is  my  'own  Locust  Dell  once  more  I  'm  beholding, 
As  on  wings  of  the  zephyr  there  floating  I  go. 

I  have  reached  it  again,  and  the  misty  reflection 

Of  childhood  o'erpowers  me  with  pleasure  and  pain ; 

These  musings  —  they  seem  but  a  dim  recollection 
Of  something  I  've  lost  that  I  cannot  regain. 

I  wander  along  in  this  lethean  existence; 
I  weep,  and  my  tears  fall  like  dew  on  the  grass ; 


JULIA    L.    KEYES.  565 

I  see  a  white  mansion,  not  now  in  the  distance ; 
I  touch  my  own  gate-latch,  and  entering  I  pass. 

So  lightly  and  cautiously  treading,  I  enter 

The  hall  where  my  voice  in  its  infancy  rung ; 
I  pause  for  a  moment  when  reaching  the  centm 

And  list  for  the  sound  of  some  welcoming  tongue. 

The  quivering  moonbeams  and  shadows  are  falling 

Like  ghostly  illusions  along  the  dark  floor : 
Why  suddenly  thus  is  that  vision  appalling  ? 

Why  throbs  my  wild  heart  as  it  ne'er  throbbed  before  ? 

To  open  the  chambers  I  now  am  unwilling ; 

No  farther  the  mansion  I  wish  to  explore ; 
I  feel  a  strange  dampness  the  atmosphere  filling  — 

The  cold  wind  is  rushing  within  the  hall-door. 

Oh!  where  are  the  loved  ones?    Oh!  where  have  they  wandered? 

Why  stands  the  dear  homestead  thus  bared  to  the  blast  ? 
'T  was  thus,  while  weak,  fainting  with  anguish,  I  pondered, 

That  memory  appeared  with  a  scroll  of  the  past. 

The  spirit  of  slumber  still  did  not  forsake  me  — 

Again,  as  on  wings  of  the  zephyr,  I  flew ; 
The  cool,  vap'rous  breath  of  the  morn  did  not  wake  me ; 

I  threaded  the  labyrinth  of  dreaming  anew. 

I  saw  by  a  clear  gushing  fountain  a  flower  — 

On  its  bosom  a  drop  of  the  crystalline  spray ; 
I  stooped,  but  the  spell  of  some  magical  power 

Prevented  my  taking  the  blossom  away. 

I  watched  the  bright  pearl-drop ;  it  slowly  distended  — 

The  blush  of  the  rose  seemed  the  hue 'of  the  sky; 
I  saw  a  new  world  in  the  ether  suspended  — 

Its  groves  and  its  lakes  I  could  faintly  espy. 

Amid  clustering  trees  a  white  mansion  was  gleaming  — 

Two  wandered  together  beneath  the  soft  shade ; 
The  pearl-drop  has  fallen  —  I  wake  from  my  dreaming 

To  see  the  long  shadows  the  sunbeams  have  made. 

Oh  !  I  know  't  is  the  absent  I  've  seen  in  my  sleeping ! 

Unto  mansions  our  Saviour  prepared  they  are  gone ; 
Love's  vigilance  still  o'er  their  child  they  are  keeping ; 

When  I  pass  the  dark  valley  I  '11  not  be  alone. 


AUGUSTA  J.  EVANS. 

SOME  critics  of  the  sterner  sex  profess  to  believe  that  female  writ 
ers  skim  over  the  surface  of  thought ;  jump  at  conclusions  without 
pausing  to  note  the  various  steps  or  arguments  by  which  those  conclu 
sions  were  attained ;  exercise  imagination  more  than  reason  ;  and  ad 
dress  themselves  to  the  emotions  rather  than  the  intellect.  That  this 
is  true  in  some  instances  cannot  be  denied,  but  it  is  far  from  being 
universal.  Examples  to  the  contrary  cluster  around  us  "  thick  a* 
leaves  at  Vallambrosa,"  among  whom  the  subject  of  this  sketch  stands 
foremost.  But  even  admitting  the  truth  of  the  above  proposition  for 
the  sake  of  argument,  are  we  not  creatures  of  feeling  as  well  as  of 
thought,  and  are  the  affections  less  important  in  the  economy  of  nature 
than  the  intellect?  Do  not  our  spirits  crave  the  beautiful  as  well  as 
the  useful  ?  What  would  the  world  gain  by  turning  its  flowers  into 
forest-oaks,  or  its  sweet  green  hills  into  impregnable  mountains? 

I  would  refer  all  who  imagine  that  women  are  incapable  of  deep 
metaphysical  research  and  close  logical  reasoning,  to  the  writings  of 
Miss  Evans,  who,  in  grappling  with  infidelity  —  the  hydra-monster 
of  the  present  age  —  has  placed  herself  among  the  first  in  point  of 
polemic  ability  and  literary  acumen,  and  justly  merits  the  title  of 
the  De  Stael  of  the  South.  Like  the  author  of  "  Corinne,"  she  ap 
proaches  a  subject  with  a  fearless,  independent  spirit,  and  gives  it  the 
whole  energies  of  her  mind. 

Augusta  J.  Evans  is  the  eldest  child  of  the  late  M.  R.  Evans,  for 
merly  a  merchant  of  Mobile ;  and  connected  on  her  mother's  side 
with  the  Howards,  a  prominent  family  of  Georgia.  She  was  born 
near  Columbus,  Georgia,  but  while  she  was  yet  a  child,  her  parents 
moved  to  Texas.  The  subsequent  year  they  divided  between  Galves- 
ton  and  Houston,  and  early  in  1847  removed  to  the  then  frontier 
town  of  San  Antonio.  The  Mexican  war  was  just  then  at  its  height, 
and  this  was  a  place  of  "  rendezvous  "  for  the  soldiers  sent  out  to  rein 
force  General  Taylor.  Here,  between  the  lawlessness  of  the  soldiery 
and  the  mixed  character  of  the  inhabitants,  society  was  completely 
disorganized.  There  were  no  schools  worthy  of  the  name,  and  the 

566 


AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS.  567 

education  of  the  little  Augusta  was  conducted  entirely  by  her  mother, 
a  lady  of  great  moral  and  intellectual  worth.  Like  Madame  Le  Vert 
and  Mrs.  Mary  E.  Bryan,  Miss  Evans  owes  everything  to  her  mother, 
and  is  withal  a  bright  example  of  the  efficiency  of  home  culture. 

Amid  the  wild,  uncultivated  scenes  around  San  Antonio,  with 
scarcely  a  companion  but  her  mother,  (for  her  brothers  were  some 
years  younger  than  herself,)  she  imbibed  that  strong,  free  spirit  which 
breathes  through  all  her  works.  Here  she  delighted  to  ramble  about 
the  crumbling  walls  of  the  Alamo,  with  her  hand  clasped  in  her 
mother's ;  while  nature's  grand  and  gloomy  solitude,  and  the  dark  and 
bloody  tragedy  which  had  so  recently  been  enacted  in  and  around 
those  walls,  stirred  up  the  latent  enthusiasm  of  her  precocious  young 
soul.  There  she  first  dreamed  of  authorship.  She  longed  to  describe 
the  wide-spread  Alameda,  and  tell  of  the  treachery  and  cruelty  that 
marked  the  fall  of  the  Alamo  and  the  brave  men  who  perished  in  that  fall. 

After  a  residence  of  two  years  in  San  Antonio,  Mr.  Evans  and 
family  removed  to  Alabama,  and  settled  in  Mobile,  where  they  have 
resided  ever  since.  There  Miss  Augusta  entered  school,  but  her  health 
failing  from  the  confinement,  she  returned  to  her  first  alma  mater, 
her  much  revered  and  excellent  mother. 

At  the  age  of  seventeen  she  wrote  "  Inez :  A  Tale  of  the  Alamo," 
designed  to  show  the  errors  and  abuses  of  Papacy  as  revealed  to  her  in 
San  Antonio,  and  to  embody  the  principal  features  of  the  Texan  war 
of  independence.  "Inez"  was  published  anonymously  in  1855,  by 
Harpers,  New  York :  while  hardly  a  "  success,"  it  was  not  a  failure. 
Since  Miss  Evans  has  become  famous,  a  New  York  firm  has  published 
"  Inez  "  without  her  consent — at  least,  the  "  copyright "  had,  we  believe, 
passed  from  her  control.  For  several  years  after  the  publication  of 
"  Inez,"  she  wrote  nothing,  except  a  few  book-notices  for  the  papers. 
And  consequently  great  was  the  surprise  when  "  Beulah  "  appeared, 
creating  a  sensation  throughout  the  country.  It  was  published  in  1859, 
by  Derby  &  Jackson,  New  York.  This  book  immortalized  Miss 
Evans's  name,  a  book  much  abused  by  certain  critics,  and  much  ad 
mired  and  read  by  everybody  else.  Its  merit  is  abundantly  shown  in 
the  fact  that,  coming  from  an  unknown  girl  of  twenty-three,  it  ran 
through  editions  of  twenty-one  thousand  copies  in  little  over  a  year.* 
Its  great  popularity  is  to  be  attributed,  in  some  degree,  to  the  original- 

*  Since  the  publication  of  "  Macaria  "  and  "  St.  Elmo,"  there  has  been  a  great  demand 
for  "  Beulah,"  and  even  "  Inez." 


568  SOUTHLAND    WHITER 8. 

ity  of  its  principal  characters.  Beulah  Benton  is  not  exactly  like  any 
girl  who  ever  lived ;  and  yet  when  we  remember  the  bitter  sufferings 
of  her  early  lite,  her  subsequent  opportunities  for  mental  culture,  her 
P'liius,  and  the  seclusion  in  which  she  lived,  her  character  is  perfectly 
natural.  She  is  not  as  gentle,  amiable,  and  loving  as  we  could  \vi.-h 
her  to  be;  and  the  possession  of  some  of  those  "amiable  weaknesses" 
so  charming  in  pretty  women  would  make  her  much  more  lovable; 
but  if  this  were  the  case,  the  book  would  be  without  those  strong  pecu 
liarities  which  are  its  most  attractive  features.  Had  Beulah's  mind  been 
less  imbittered  by  early  wrongs,  she  might  not  have  struggled  with 
those  doubts  which  constitute  the  groundwork  of  the  book ;  she  most 
probably  would  never  have  groped  through  the  labyrinth  of  infidelity, 
and  learned  by  experience  that  the  weary  soul  can  find  no  rest  but  in 
the  religion  of  the  Bible. 

Miss  Evans's  home  is  in  Summerville,  about  three  miles  from  the 
city  of  Mobile,  on  one  of  the  city  railways.  "  There  is  nothing  dreamy 
or  eccentric  about  her.  She  is  a  healthy,  practical,  straightforward, 
Christian  woman."  She  is  a  member  of  the  Methodist  Church,  and 
we  believe  is  the  leader  of  the  choir  in  the  St.  Francis  Street  church 
of  Mobile.  Dr.  Jerome  Cochran,  of  Mobile,  says: 

"  Her  most  remarkable  characteristics  seein  to  me  to  be  an  enthusiasm,  at 
the  same  time  simple  and  childlike,  and  large  and  generous  to  a  degree  not 
very  common  among  women ;  and  a  resolute,  energetic  will,  that  will  not 
allow  her  to  swerve  from  any  enterprise  she  has  once  deliberately  undertaken. 
She  has  an  immense  capacity  for  work.  Her  genius  is  the  same  triumphant 
faculty  that  has  made  so  many  people  famous  in  this  world's  history  —  the 
genius  of  labor.  Her  fluency  of  speech  is  sometimes  a  matter  of  legitimate 
astonishment ;  and  yet,  I  believe,  she  does  not  compose  very  rapidly.  She 
copies  her  manuscript  with  a  great  deal  of  care,  in  very  clear,  regular,  legi 
ble  chirography,  with  hardly  a  blot  or  an  interlineation  on  hundreds  of 
pages.  She  is  a  very  womanly  woman,  and  is  an  unwavering  opponent  of 
all  the  new-fangled  doctrines  that  would  lead  the  sex  to  invade  the  time- 
honored  prerogatives  of  masculine  humanity.  She  has  her  faults  and  her 
weaknesses,  no  doubt ;  else  she  would  not  be  human.  But  she  is  a  genuine 
woman,  and  no  counterfeit  imitation  of  one — a  woman  full  of  generous  feel 
ing  and  high  aspirations,  and  who  is  most  highly  esteemed  by  those  who 
know  her  best." 

During  the  days  of  the  Confederacy,  Miss  Evans  was  devoted  to  the 
cause  of  the  South  and  to  the  soldiers.  An  encampment  a  short  dis 
tance  from  her  residence  was  entitled,  in  her  honor,  "  Camp  Beulah." 


AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS.  569 

Here  she  was  a  constant  visitor.  "While  the  soldiers  lived,  one  bright 
spirit  never  forsook  them  ;  when  they  died,  her  eloquent  tongue  gave 
them  counsel  and  comfort."  It  was  a  rare  treat  to  pass  the  evening 
at  Miss  Evans's  home ;  and  her  parlors  and  piazza  never  lacked  for 
guests  highly  entertained  by  her  conversation  and  that  of  her  sisters. 

It  became  a  "  military  necessity "  to  destroy  the  beautiful  trees 
about  Summerville,  as  it  was  expected  that  there  might  be  fighting  in 
that  direction,  and  it  was  thought  advisable  for  Mr.  Evans's  family  to 
remove  to  the  city.  Mobile  was  crowded  with  people,  and  house-room 
was  in  demand,  and  they  fixed  up  the  second  and  third  floors  of  their 
father's  store,  fronting  the  river,  and  for  several  months  occupied  the 
same  in  a  kind  of  "  camping-out  style."  In  the  popular  acceptation 
of  the  term,  Miss  Evans  is  not  a  bas  bleu;  for,  as  some  one  humorously 
remarked,  "  like  the  girls  in  the  history  of  '  Sergeant  Dale,'  she  sings 
psalms  and  darns  stockings  equally  well." 

In  1864,  West  &  Johnston,  Richmond,  published  "  Macaria ;  or, 
Altars  of  Sacrifice."  The  motto  of  which  was,  "  We  have  all  to  be 
laid  upon  an  altar ;  we  have  all,  as  it  were,  to  be  subjected  to  the 
action  of  fire."  By  many  persons  this  is  considered  Miss  Evans's  best 
book.  No  man  or  woman  ever  had  such  a  subject  as  that,  or  ever 
will  have  again. 

Says  one  critic  in  a  Confederate  journal : 

"  In  examining  a  work  of  this  kind,  the  first  question  is,  What,  taken  as  a 
whole,  are  the  characteristics  of  the  plot  and  the  principal  characters  ?  In 
this  respect  'Macaria'  is  unexceptionable.  The  plot  is  vraisemblable,  and 
well  sustained  throughout ;  the  characters  are  deeply  interesting  and  never 
inconsistent.  From  the  moment  that  Irene,  the  heroine,  is  introduced,  to  us, 
she  is  lofty  in  her  aspirations,  independent  in  spirit,  and  almost  eccentrically 
just  in  judgment,  and  so  she  remains  to  the  last.  When  she  appears  in  the 
second  chapter,  these  qualities  are  justly  represented  as  influenced  by  the 
inexperience  of  youth,  and  by  the  brusquerie  inseparable  from  motherless 
training,  masculinity  of  association,  and  unrestricted  indulgence.  She 
answers  her  Aunt  Margaret  with  almost  offensive  pertness,  but  in  the  same 
breath  evinces  a  sturdy  spirit  of  self-reliance,  and  an  utter  disregard  of  con 
ventional  pretentiousness.  With  Electra  she  presently  betrays  a  charming 
though  unexpressed  degree  of  sympathy  for  the  afflicted  Mrs.  Aubrey;  imme 
diately  afterward  she  more  boldly  and  distinctly  shows  it  to  Eussell ;  she 
does  not  fully  express  it,  however,  till  she  asks  her  father  for  the  means  of 
carrying  it  into  practical  effect;  and  she  fully  unmasks  its  force  only  when, 
after  receiving  her  father's  terrible  rebuff  and  refusal,  she  finally  obtains  the 


570  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

:ii<l  -he  requires  from  Dr.  Arnold.  And,  as  thus  portrayed,  she  continues  in 
character  to  the  latest  period  of  her  life  to  which  the  author  has  conveyed 
IK,  with  such  modifications  alone  as  are  justly  attributable  to  such  increased 
experience  and  advantages  of  association  as  she  enjoyed.  These  were  not 
very  extensive.  Their  effect  is  properly  represented  as  correspondingly  lim 
it  cil.  and  she  leaves  our  company  still  open  to  improvement  in  most  of  the 
salient  points  of  her  character  —  still  needing  the  chastening  effects  of  an 
acquaintance  with  the  hard  actualities  and  the  softening  joys  and  beauties 
of  real  life;  still  lacking  the  gentleness  begotten  of  constant  association  with 
feminine  youth,  and  amiability,  and  joyousness. 

"  Her  father,  Leonard  Huntingdon,  is  portrayed  as  well  as  is  Irene  her 
self.  The  intensity  of  his  uncontrolled  passion  startles  us  as  we  read  of  his 
outburst  on  learning  that  it  is  Mrs.  Aubrey  —  the  Amy  who  had  refused  his 
proffered  hand  —  to  serve  whom  Irene  had  asked  two  hundred  dollars  of 
him.  But  it  is  far  from  being  without  the  pale  of  probability.  His  conduct 
is  nothing  compared  with  that  of  Mr.  Bronte,  the  father  of  Currer  and  Acton 
Bell,  toward  poor  Charlotte,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  his  family.  And  we  may 
remark  here  that  there  are  in  '  Macaria '  not  a  few  features  which  would  sug 
gest  to  the  readers  of  the  Bronte  biography,  by  Mrs.  Gaskill,  a  curious  though 
distant  similarity  with  many  of  those  which  this  lady  has  portrayed  of  that 
strangely  unhappy  though  distinguished  family.  There  are,  for  instance, 
the  same  traits  of  cramped  and  undirected  genius  on  the  one  hand ;  on  the 
other,  the  same  mixture  of  severe  yet  well-meant  desire  for  justice,  and  of 
anxious  yet  harsh  paternal  feeling;  there  is  the  same  prohibition  of  the  mar 
riage  of  the  daughter;  there  is  even  the  savage  bull-dog,  'Keeper,'  and 
Emily's  control  over  him,  to  contrast  with  Irene's  gentle  and  affectionate 
Paragon ;  there  is  the  unhappy  denouement  in  both  cases.  And  other  simi 
larities  and  contrasts  may  be  found.  They  go  no  further,  however,  than  to 
illustrate  the  assertion  that  there  is  nothing  improbable  in  either  the  plot  or 
the  characters  of '  Macaria '  which  we  have  noticed.  There  is  not  the  slight 
est  ground  for  supposing  that  they  suggested  any  of  Miss  Evans's  portraitures. 

"  In  Russell  and  Electra  we  have  two  characters  equally  as  well  drawn  as 
those  of  Mr.  Huntingdon  and  his  daughter ;  and  it  is  not  a  little  worthy  of 
observation  that  each  pair  of  the  characters  should  be  so  naturally  repre 
sented  as  to  afford  a  very  striking  illustration  of  the  doctrine  of  physical  and 
mental  heritage,  as  well  as  of  the  effects  of  surrounding  circumstances.  That 
the  salient  qualities  of  Irene's  attributes  are  derivable  from  her  father  is  too 
obvious  to  need  enforcement.  And  that  Russell  and  Electra,  as  cousins, 
inherited  like  qualities  is  not  less  clear,  when  it  is  considered  how  they  had 
struggled  to  achieve  a  glorious  fame,  and  throughout  maintained  their  indi 
viduality  and  force  of  character.  This  illustration  is  carried  farther,  indeed, 
in  the  case  of  Russell  and  his  father.  Controlled  as  they  may  have  been  by 
the  former,  the  same  passions  that  led  his  father  to  his  unhappy  end  were 
undoubtedly  present  and  strong  in  him. 


AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS.  571 

"  Mrs.  Aubrey  and  Jacob  Watson,  Hugh  and  Harvey  Young,  Uncle  Eric 
and  Clifton,  Dr.  Arnold  and  Lawyer  Campbell,  are  all  as  life-like  as  it  is 
possible  to  make  them.  The  piety  of  the  blind  widow  is  as  pure  as  human 
nature  seems  capable  of  cultivating  —  too  God-like  in  charity  for  bigots,  too 
holy  in  faith  for  infidels,  too  confident  in  hope  for  the  thoughtless.  The 
sordid  villany  of  Watson  is  constantly  met  with,  and,  thank  heaven !  as  con 
stantly,  sooner  or  later,  meets  its  reward.  And  what  a  beautiful  contrast  is 
that  presented  between  the  recklessness  of  Hugh  and  his  untimely  end,  and 
the  goodness  and  firm  resolution  of  Harvey  Young !  How  much  alike  in 
goodness  of  heart,  though  differing  in  sentiment  and  manner,  are  Clifton 
and  Eric,  the  generous  lawyer  and  the  warm-hearted  old-bachelor  physician ! 

"  And  nowhere,  as  we  have  said,  does  one  of  these  characters  fail.  From 
beginning  to  end  they  contribute  to  the  development  of  the  plot,  and  no 
where  do  they  flag  —  nowhere  do  they  violate  the  attributes  we  ascribe  to 
them  as  soon  as  we  know  them." 

Mr.  Salem  Dutcher,  at  the  time  editing  a  journal  in  Augusta,  Geor 
gia,  thus  reviews  "  Macaria  "  : 

"In  'Macaria,'  the  authoress  of '  Beulah '  has  ventured  on  a  dangerous  ex 
periment.  She  has  endeavored  to  write  a  story  of  American  life  —  our  hard, 
bare,  prosaic,  unnovelistic  American  life —  in  an  ultra  classic  and  super-eru 
dite  style,  and  has  failed.  It  was  necessary  from  the  very  nature  of  things 
that  she  must  have  failed  —  but  has  at  least  done  as  well  as  any,  where  none 
could  fully  succeed.  The  narration  of  life  in  the  New  World  is  not  to  be 
written  in  Grsecisms,  or  told  by  all  the  recondite  philosophizing  of  science. 
We  are  neither  a  classic  nor  a  profound  people,  and  any  attempt  to  portray 
us  by  a  style  appropriate  to  such,  must  strike  us  with  as  painful  incongruity 
as  those  French  melodramas  where  Hannibal  wears  red-heeled  shoes  and 
Cato  harangues  in  a  roquelaire  and  a  tie-wig.  The  characters  in  'Macaria,'  or 
the  main  characters  at  least,  are  three  in  number  —  for,  disdaining  even  the 
traditional  duality,  perhaps  because  it  is  traditional,  the  authoress  has  given 
us  a  trinity  of  chief  personages.  There  is  Russell  Aubrey  —  the  very  type 
of  the  American  self-made  man.  There  is  Irene  Huntingdon,  the  self-poised, 
'  faultily  faultless '  daughter  of  a  stern  millionaire ;  and  there  is  Electra 
Gray,  a  large-eyed,  fervid  devotee  of  Art.  Russell  Aubrey  is,  when  the 
scene  opens,  a  dry-goods  clerk,  and  Irene  and  Electra,  school-girls.  Prompted 
by  pride  and  ambition,  the  hero  devotes  his  spare  hours  to  study,  is  received 
into  a  lawyer's  office,  goes  to  Europe,  returns,  is  admitted  to  the  bar  and  pros 
pers,  dabbles  in  politics,  and  '  in  the  course  of  the  political  cataclysm  '  (Ma 
caria)  is  elected  to  the  legislature.  He  loves  Irene,  and  Electra  loves  him. 
Feelings  conflict,  strange  love-experiences  occur.  Aubrey  has  ambition  to 
distract  him  ;  Electra  also  serves  two  masters  —  Love  and  Art ;  and  Irene, 
who  finally  discovers  her  heart  is  Aubrey's,  mingles  with  her  contemplations 


572  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

on  that  subject  the  astronomical  contemplation  of  the  heavens.  The  plot 
thickens.  The  triple,  or  rather  sextuple  thread  of  the  tale  becomes  inextri 
cably  involved.  Then  the  war  breaks  out,  and  the  Gordian  knot  is  —  as  is 
classic:illy  proper  — cut  by  the  sword.  Aubrey  becomes  a  soldier,  and  proves 
himself  a  good  one.  He  serves  faithfully,  is  wounded  unto  death,  and  ex 
pires  in  Irene's  clasping  arms,  a  noble  victim  offered  up  on  a  pure  '  altar  of 
sacrifice.'  At  his  death  the  proper  duality  is  restored  —  though  that  duality 
is  of  one  sex,  for  '  Macaria '  is  strange  to  the  last.  Irene  and  Electra  become 
heart-sisters,  one  ministering  to  the  soldier  and  the  poor,  and  the  other  pour 
ing  out  her  artist  soul  over  a  high-art  painting,  The  Modern  Macaria  —  a 
battle-scene,  where  the  Federal  flag  trails  in  the  dust,  and  the  white-robed 
Angel  of  Peace  stops  the  touch-hole  of  a  cannon. 

"  Such  is  a  rapid  enumeration  of '  Macaria's '  salient  points.  The  design  of 
the  work  we  have  already  characterized  as  impossible  of  accomplishment, 
and  the  conduct  of  the  story  is  marred  by  a  flashy  show  of  erudition.  These 
are  grave  defects  —  exceedingly  grave,  as  affecting  equally  design  and  execu 
tion  ;  and  yet,  in  spite  of  all,  '  Macaria'  is  a  fine  book.  It  is  thoroughly  read 
able,  it  will  be  productive  of  good,  and  has  not  a  few  most  tender  and  grace 
ful  passages  —  so  tender  and  so  graceful  that  we  could  wish  to  have  heard  U>s 
of  (eons  and  chiliasms,  and  more  of  love  and  duty.  Here  the  authoress  ex 
cels.  The  heart  —  the  great,  loving,  clinging,  lovable  heart  —  is  peculiarly 
the  province  of  woman,  and  few  there  be  who  can  touch  its  softest  chords 
like  the  authoress  of  '  Beulah.'  Striking  those  chords  as  she  did  in  '  Beulah,' 
many  will  hang  upon  her  words  and  bless  her  for  the  comfort  and  happiness 
they  bring.  Forsaking  the  substance  for  the  shadow,  and  striving  to  reach 
the  head  rather  than  touch  the  heart,  there  are  few  who  will  not  feel  that  she 
is  giving  but  husks  to  the  hungry.  Classic  allusion  and  metaphysic  theory 
are  '  caviare  to  the  general,'  and  it  is  for  the  general  the  novelist  should 
write.  Those  who  love  the  classics  will  not  look  for  their  beauties  in  a  mod 
ern  romance ;  and  the  devotees  of  science  are  still  less  likely  to  forsake  the 
tomes  of  fact  for  the  brochures  of  fancy. 

"  But  cuigue  in  stia  arte  credendum  est  —  let  credit  be  given  every  one  in  his 
own  craft.  It  may  be  thought  that  we  speak  too  harshly  of  '  Macaria ; '  and 
'  Maearia '  shall  speak  for  itself. 

"  Here  is  the  passage  which  describes  the  star-gazing  of  Irene.  It  is  night, 
and  she  watches  the  heavens : 

"' In  panoramic  vision  she  crossed  the  dusty  desert  of  centuries,  and  watched  with 
Chaldean  shepherds  the  pale,  sickly  light  of  waning  moons  on  Shinar's  plains ;  welcomed 
tin'  gnomon  (first-born  of  the  great  family  of  astronomic  apparatus) ;  toiled  over  and 
}rl.>rifd  in  the  Zaros  ;  stood  at  the  armillary  sphere  of  Ju,  in  the  days  of  Confucius  ;  stu- 
ilicil  with  Thali-s,  Anaximander,  and  Pythagoras;  entered  the  sacred  precincts  of  tho 
.K.-html  of  Crotona,  hand-in-hand  with  Damo,  the  earliest  woman  who  bowed  a  devotee  at 
the  starry  shrine,  and,  with  her,  was  initiated  into  its  esoteric  doctrines ;  puzzled  with 
Mcton  over  his  lunar  cycle ;  exulted  in  Ilipparchus's  gigantic  labor,  the  first  collection 


AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS.  573 

of  tables,  the  earliest  reliable  catalogues;  walked  through  the  Alexandrine  school  of 
sarans,  misled  by  Ptolemy;  and  bent  with  Uliegh  Beigh  over  the  charts  of  Samarcand. 
In  imagination  she  accompanied  Copernicus  and  Tycho-Brahe,  and  wrestled  with  Kepler 
in  the  Titanic  struggle  that  ended  in  the  discovery  of  the  magnificent  trinity  of  astrono 
mic  laws  framed  by  the  Divine  Architect  when  the  first  star  threw  its  faint  shimmer 
through  the  silent  waste  of  space.  Kepler's  three  laws  were  an  unceasing  wonder  and 
joy  to  her,  and  with  a  fond,  womanly  pride  she  was  wont  to  recur  to  a  lonely  observatory 
in  Silesia,  where,  before  Newton  rose  upon  the  world,  one  of  her  own  sex,  Maria  Cunitz, 
launched  upon  the  stormy  sea  of  scientific  literature  the  '  Urania  Propitia.'  The  Con 
gress  of  Lilienthal  possessed  far  more  of  interest  for  her  than  any  which  ever  sat  in 
august  council  over  the  fate  of  nations,  and  the  names  of  Herschel,  Bessel,  Argelander, 
Struve,  Arago,  Leverrier,  and  Maedler  were  sacred  as  Persian  telefin.  From  the  'Al 
magest'  of  Ptolemy,  and  the  'Cometographie'  of  Pingre,  to  the  '  Mecanique  Celeste,' 
she  had  searched  and  toiled  :  and  now  the  sublime  and  almost  bewildering  speculations 
of  Maedler  held  her  spell-bound.' 

"This  is  the  style  we  dislike  —  the  false,  strained,  would-be  Frenchy,  ready- 
made  scientific  style,  distressing  to  the  reader,  and  unworthy  the  writer.  It 
glitters,  yet  it  is  not  gold.  But  here  is  the  pure  gold  itself —  pray  that  the  suc 
cessors  of  'Macaria'  have  more  of  it.  Eussell  Aubrey  is  dying.  They  have 
brought  him  to  the  rear,  and  as  his  life  is  fleeting  fast  away  in  Irene's  arms, 
he  speaks : 

"'"  I  should  like  to  have  seen  the  end  of  the  struggle  —  but  Thy  will,  0  my  God!  not 
mine." 

"  '  He  lifted  his  eyes  toward  heaven,  and  for  some  moments  his  lips  moved  inaudibly  in 
prayer.  Gradually  a  tranquil  expression  settled  on  his  features,  and  as  his  eyes  closed 
again  he  murmured  faintly: 

"  '  "  Irene  —  darling  —  raise  me  a  little." 

"  'They  lifted  him  and  rested  his  head  against  her  shoulder. 

"  '"Irene.! " 

'""I  am  here,  Russell;  my  arms  are  around  you." 

"  '  She  laid  her  cheek  on  his,  and  listened  to  catch  the  words ;  but  none  came.  The  lips 
parted  once,  and  a  soft  fluttering  breath  swept  across  them.  Dr.  Arnold  put  his  hand 
over  the  heart — no  pulsation  greeted  him;  and,  turning  away,  the  old  man  covered  his 
face  with  his  handkerchief. 

"  '  "  Russell,  speak  to  me  once  more." 

"'There  was  no  sound  —  no  motion.  She  knew  then  that  the  soldier's  spirit  had  soared 
to  the  shores  of  Everlasting  Peace,  and  that  not  until  she  joined  him  there  would  the 
loved  tones  again  make  music  in  her  heart.  She  tightened  her  arms  around  the  still 
form  and  nestled  her  cheek  closer  to  his,  now  growing  cold.  No  burst  of  grief  escaped 
her,  to  tell  of  agony  and  despair : 

"But,  like  a  statue  solid  set, 
And  moulded  in  colossal  calm," 

she  sat  mute  and  resigned,  at  the  foot  of  the  Red  Dripping  Altar  of  Patriotism,  where 
lay  in  hallowed  sacrifice  her  noble,  darling  dead.' 

"  Bating  the  poetry  and  the  many  capitals  at  the  close  —  for  human  extrem- 


574  SOUTHLAND     WRITERS. 

ity  never  quotes  poetry  or  employs  capitals  —  this  is  nobly  written.  Tt  is 
true,  and  therefore  touching.  It  is  feeling,  and  therefore  felt.  It  is  worthy 
of  the  authoress  of  '  Beiilah,'  and  as  far  superior  to  the  stringing  together  of 
microcosm  and  macrocotm,  almagest  and  telefin,  chUiasm  and  adyta  as  the  elo 
quence  of  Pericles  surpassed  the  mouthings  of  Cleon." 

Miss  Evans  is  of  medium  size,  small-waisted,  a  neck  fair,  and  a 
perfect  model  for  a  sculptor.  Her  hands  and  feet  are  those  of  a 
Southern  lady,  very  small  and  tidy.  She  looks  as  if  she  would  weigh 
about  one  hundred  and  fifteen  pounds,  and  to  the  eye  of  an  artist 
resembles  Power's  Greek  Slave  more  than  the  Venus  de  Medici  or 
the  Venus  of  Canova. 

After  the  close  of  the  war,  Miss  Evans  proposed  to  erect  a  monu 
ment  to  the  Confederate  dead ;  but  it  was  objected  to  by  those  in 
authority. 

"St.  Elmo"  was  published  in  1867,  by  Carleton  &  Co.,  New  York, 
and  soon  acquired  the  reputation  of  being  the  "most  praised  and  best- 
abused  novel "  ever  published  in  this  country  by  a  woman. 

Says  the  "  Round  Table,"  in  a  lengthy  notice  of  this  book : 

"  '  St.  Elmo '  is  a  curious  mixture  of  power  and  weakness  —  of  insight  and 
superficiality  —  of  creative  vigor,  and  of  tame  imitation;  and  while  it  evinces 
of  real  merit  sufficient  to  stock  half  a  dozen  of  the  domestic  fictions  from 
female  hands  to  which  we  are  so  well  accustomed,  it  at  once  falls  short  of 
the  ideal  the  writer  herself  unquestionably  had  in  view,  and  persuades  us 
that  with  time,  perseverance,  and  a  rigid  chastening  of  style,  she  can  pro 
duce  something  far  better 

"  '  St.  Elmo '  is  an  interesting  story,  if  it  is  in  some  respects  a  stilted  and 
pretentious  one.  It  is  a  promising  story,  if  not  a  particularly  robust  or 
original  one." 

From  the  many  reviews  and.  notices  that  have  appeared  of  "St. 
Elmo,"  we  have  selected  one,  written  by  Dr.  Jerome  Cochran,  of 
Mobile,  and  printed  in  the  "  Home  Monthly,"  Nashville,  to  make  our 
extracts : 

"  It  is  not  necessary  to  read  the  title-page  to  know  that  '  St.  Elmo '  is  the 
work  of  the  same  warm,  true  heart,  and  of  the  same  resolute,  aspiring  mind 
to  which  the  world  is  indebted  for  '  Beulah '  and  '  Macaria.'  We  have  here, 
in  still  higher  development,  the  excellences  for  which  those  two  books  were 
tvm.-irkable;  the  same  love  of  inanimate  nature;  the  same  confident  assertion 
of  the  dignity  and  blessedness  of  labor ;  the  same  impatience  of  all  servility, 


AUGUSTA    J.    EVAXS.  575 

meanness,  and  duplicity ;  the  same  immaculate  purity  of  conception,  thought, 
feeling,  expression ;  the  same  beautiful  sympathy  with  all  the  forms  and 
phases  of  self-abnegation  and  self-sacrifice ;  the  same  reverent  appreciation 
of  the  metaphysical  and  ethical  doctrines  of  the  Christian  religion ;  the  same 
unswerving  devotion  to  Duty  —  stern  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God ;  and,  in  a 
word,  the  same  abounding  enthusiasm,  the  same  abiding  faith  in  all  things 
beautiful,  and  true,  and  good 

"In  spite  of  all  its  faults,  'St.  Elmo'  is  a  genuine,  earnest  book;  a  strong, 
honest,  rich  book ;  a  book  brimful  of  fine  thought,  graceful  feeling,  and  bril 
liant  imagination ;  a  book  which  no  other  woman  could  have  written,  and 
of  which  it  may  be  safely  said  that  in  its  day  and  generation  it  will  do  some 
good  in  the  world.  In  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  it  is  not  a  sensational 
book.  It  derives  no  part  of  its  interest  from  perverse  ingenuity  of  plot,  nor 
from  the  skilful  management  of  some  tantalizing  and  perplexing  mystery, 
with  its  customary  train  of  evanescent  and  shadowy  fascinations.  And  yet  it 
throws  over  the  reader  a  spell  which  he  cannot  shake  off,  which  enchains  his 
attention  from  the  first  chapter  to  the  last,  and  will  not  allow  him  to  stop 
until  the  end  is  reached. 

"  It  is  easy  to  say  that  the  style  is  inflated  and  ambitious ;  but  more  than 
this  is  necessary  to  describe  it  fitly.  It  is  always  clear  and  strong,  and  rich 
with  every  variety  of  rhetorical  embellishment.  Sometimes  it  is  imbued 
with  the  truest  and  tenderest  pathos,  and  affluent  of  music  as  the  song  of 
the  nightingale.  Sometimes  it  is  all  aglow  with  the  fire  of  eloquence,  and 
gleams  and  flashes  like  a  sky  all  stars.  And  this  is  its  fault.  It  is  too  rich, 
too  brilliant,  too  liberally  garnished  with  those  ambitious  polysyllables, 
words  sesquipedalian  of  learned  strength  and  thundering  sound,  which  were 
such  favorites  with  Dr.  Johnson  and  Dr.  Parr.  It  seems  at  times  to  walk 
on  stilts ;  and  very  often,  in  passages  which  are  in  other  respects  beautiful 
exceedingly,  we  come  across  some  verbal  monstrosity,  or  some  incongruous 
comparison  dragged  in  by  the  heels,  which  provokes  us  beyond  measure. 
There  is  too  much  glitter.  We  grow  weary  of  the  unchanging  splendor  — 
of  the  prodigal  opulence  of  similes,  metaphors,  and  recondite  allusions. 

"  The  plot  is  extremely  simple.  Edna  Earl  —  this  name,  by  the  way,  is 
not  musically  correct  —  Edna  Earl,  the  heroine,  is  a  simple  country-girl,  the 
daughter  of  a  carpenter.  Bereft  in  early  childhood  of  both  father  and 
mother,  she  grew  up,  until  her  twelfth  year,  near  Chattanooga,  Tennessee, 
•ignorant  of  worldly  knowledge,  and  of  the  guile  which  so  often  keeps  it 
company,  under  the  shadow  of  Mount  Lookout,  and  the  care  of  her  grand- 
lather,  Aaron  Hunt,  the  blacksmith,  when,  he  also  dying,  she  is  left  alone  in 
the  world,  without  kith  or  kin,  and  takes  the  cars  for  Columbus,  Georgia, 
with  the  intention  of  working  in  the  factory  for  a  living,  and  of  educating 
herself  as  she  best  can.  Providence,  which  watches  over  the  sparrows  when 
they  fall,  does  not  favor  the  factory  scheme,  having  quite  other  fortune  iu 
store  for  the  stricken  wanderer ;  and  the  train  which  carries  Edna  collides 


576  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

•with  another,  with  the  usual  quota  of  broken  heads  and  limbs.  Edna,  badly 
hurt,  but  with  some  life  left  in  her,  is  taken  to  Le  Bocage,  the  palatial  resi- 
denre  of  the  Murrays,  to  be  watched  and  tended  until  she  recovers  from  her 
injuries.  Her  sweet,  patient  temper,  together  with  her  gifts  of  mind  and 
body,  wins  so  much  of  Mrs.  Murray's  good  opinion,  that  it  is  arranged  that 
she  shall  remain  at  Le  Bocage  until  she  is  qualified  to  teach;  and  her  educa'- 
tion  is  intrusted  to  Mr.  Hammond,  the  venerable  pastor  of  the  village 
church,  under  whose  care  her  hungry  intellect  devours  an  immense  amount 
of  miscellaneous  mental  food,  including  Greek  and  Latin,  and  even  a  little 
of  Hebrew  and  Chaldee,  her  unfeminine  curiosity  perversely  leading  her  to 
seek  acquaintance  with  Eddas,  Sagas,  Talmuds,  Targums,  and  Egyptian, 
(Ireek,  Roman,  and  Scandinavian  mythologies,  instead  of  resting  satisfied 
with  the  usual  feminine  varieties.  At  Le  Bocage  she  makes  the  acquaint 
ance  of  St.  Elmo  Murray,  the  hero  of  the  book,  the  master  of  the  house,  and 
the  only  son  of  her  benefactress.  St.  Elmo,  like  Phillips'  Napoleon,  is  grand, 
gloomy,  and  peculiar.  He  is  also  handsome  and  rich — his  beauty,  to  borrow 
a  simile  from  Edgar  Poe,  dark  and  splendid,  like  that  ebony  to  which  has 
been  likened  the  eloquence  of  Tertullian  —  his  wealth  of  such  fabulous  abun 
dance  as  to  enable  him  to  gratify  the  most  extravagant  whims  of  his  extrav 
agant  imagination.  He  had  grown  up  with  his  heart  full  of  generous  sym 
pathy  for  humanity's  toiling  and  suffering  millions,  and  with  his  head  full 
of  philanthropic  schemes  for  the  amelioration  of  humanity's  abounding 
miseries.  The  darling  friend  of  his  youth,  Mr.  Hammond's  son,  whom  he 
had  overwhelmed  with  benefactions,  betrayed  his  confidence  with  treachery 
most  foul.  The  beautiful  woman  whom  he  loved  with  all  the  fervor  of  his 
passionate  nature  was  cruelly  unfaithful  to  her  vows.  He  tore  the  false 
woman  from  his  heart  with  scorn  and  loathing ;  the  false  friend  he  killed  in 
a  duel.  Soured  into  misanthropy  and  skepticism,  fierce,  moody,  implacable, 
taking  no  delight  in  man,  nor  woman  either,  he  heaped  bitterest  maledic 
tions  and  anathemas  upon  the  whole  hated  race  of  human  beings,  and  de 
voted  himself,  soul  and  body,  heart,  mind,  and  estate,  to  the  service  of  the 
infernal  gods.  This  man,  trampling  all  the  charities  and  nobilities  of 
human  nature  under  his  irreverent  feet,  Edna  regards,  first  with  fear  and 
aversion,  then  with  pitying  wonder,  and  then  —  inexorable,  inevitable  fatal  it  v 
— with  blind,  passionate  love;  illustrating  the  truth  of  Pope's  familiar  lines: 

"  '  Vice  is  a  monster  of  such  frightful  mien, 
As  to  be  hated  needs  but  to  be  seen ; 
But  seen  too  oft,  familiar  with  its  face, 
We  first  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace.' 

"And  how  does  St.  Elmo  feel,  think,  act  toward  the  poor  orphan  girl 
whom  accident  had  thrown  under  his  roof?  She  was  human,  and  therefore, 
in  his  opinion,  vile.  She  was  woman,  and  therefore,  according  to  his  phi 
losophy,  false.  But  when  he  found  her  always  clinging  resolutely  to  the 


AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS.  577 

right;  when  years  of  temptation  and  trial  left  her  always  faithful  and  true — • 
always  '  pure,  womanly '  —  his  stoical  misanthropy  gave  way.  The  love  that 
had  been  cast  out  of  his  fierce  heart,  and  buried  out  of  sight  for  so  many 
years,  revisited  the  glimpses  of  the  moon.  He  struggled  against  it ;  but  it 
would  not  down  at  his  bidding.  At  last,  clasping  her  in  his  arms,  covering 
her  lips  with  passionate  kisses,  he  poured  into  her  ear  the  dark  history  of 
his  life,  into  her  heart  the  perilous  burden  of  his  passionate  love.  Here  is 
the  crisis  of  the  book.  For  a  weak  woman,  under  the  circumstances,  there 
would  have  been  no  hope.  But  Edna  is  not  weak.  In  spite  of  the  mesmeric 
fascinations  which  invested  her  lover  as  he  stood  before  her  like  an  arch 
angel  fallen  —  in  spite  of  the  love  that  pleaded  for  him  out  of  the  depths  of 
her  woman's  heart  —  she  will  be  none  of  his;  she  will  not  degrade  her 
womanhood  by  marrying  a  man  whom  she  knows  is  not  worthy  of  her. 

"  They  parted ;  she  to  pursue  a  brilliant  literary  career  in  New  York  —  to 
win  money,  reputation,  hosts  of  friends,  everything  necessary  to  gratify 
her  ambition.  She  is  admired  and  praised,  and  her  hand  is  sought  by  men 
most  brilliantly  endowed  in  mind  and  person  and  in  this  world's  perishable 
goods.  But  her  heart  still  clings,  with  unreasoning  affection,  to  St.  Elmo ; 
and  so,  poor,  proud,  honest  woman  that  she  is,  the  flattering  offers  are  all 
declined.  In  the  mean  time,  Edna's  love  of  St.  Elmo  —  for  well  the  wicked 
man  knows  she  cannot  help  but  love  him  —  is  the  one  star,  radiant  of  hope, 
which  shines  in  the  dark  sky  that  overshadows  him.  He  will  make  himself 
worthy  of  Edna ;  with  that  prize  before  him,  his  lexicon  has  in  it  no  such 
word  as  fail.  He  mends  his  ways.  The  lips  that  have  so  often  uttered  God's 
name  in  curses,  now  tremble  in  pious  supplications.  All  that  he  can  do  to 
atone  for  the  folly  and  wickedness  of  his  misspent  life  he  does.  And  the 
peace  that  passeth  all  understanding  descends  from  the  heaven  of  heavens 
into  his  heart  once  more.  He  is  ordained  to  the  ministry.  Mr.  Hammond's 
venerable  hands  are  laid  upon  him  in  benediction,  and  his  mother's  heart 
blossoms  like  the  rose.  Rehabilitated  in  the  sight  of  men  and  of  angels,  he 
seeks  Edna  Earl.  She  cannot  be  more  just  than  God — cannot  condemn  the 
man  whom  God  has  pardoned ;  and  so  she  takes  him  the  usual  way,  for  bet 
ter  or  for  worse,  to  love,  honor,  and  obey 

"  The  character  of  Edna  has  at  least  one  of  the  merits  which  criticism 
demands  —  it  is  true  to  nature.  Miss  Evans  puts  herself,  more  or  less,  into 
every  book  she  writes.  Beulah  is  like  her  in  many  things ;  Irene  is  like  her 
in  many  things ;  but  Edna  is  her  finished  and  authentic  portrait  of  herself. 
The  biographical  details  of  Edna's  life  are  not  applicable  to  Miss  Evans, 
and  in  personal  appearance  they  are  widely  different ;  but  in  moral  and  intel 
lectual  character  they  are  precisely  the  same.  As  Edna  feels  and  thinks,  so 
feels  and  thinks  Miss  Evans;  and  just  as  Edna  talks,  Miss  Evans  talks.  ,The 
most  dazzling  conversational  bravura  of  Edna  in  the  book  is  not  one  whit 
more  keen,  polished,  and  brilliant  than  Miss  Evans's  impromptu  conversations 
5 


578  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

in  real  life ;  and  Edna's  self  is  not  more  worthy  to  be  loved  and  honored 
than  the  .irit'tnl  lady  whose  fancy  painted  her. 

"MU-  Kvans  has  done  well  in  '  St.  Elmo ;' but  she  can  do  better.  She 
has  the  native  power  of  thought,  the  energy  of  will,  the  shaping-power  of 
imagination,  and  the  triumphant  faculty  of  labor,  which  sweeps  all  difficul 
ties  from  its  path,  all  the  qualifications  that  are  necessary  to  produce  a  truly 
great  book  —  a  book  that  will  deserve  to  live,  and  that  will  live." 

Miss  Evans  was  married,  on  the  1st  of  December,  1868,  to  Mr.  L. 
M.  Wilson,  of  Mobile.  Her  residence  is  at  Summerville,  very  near  the 
home  of  her  girlhood.  She  has  in  the  press  of  Carleton  a  novel  written 
before  her  marriage,  which  will  be  eagerly  welcomed  by  the  many 
admirers  of  her  former  works. 


INDEPENDENCE. 

"  Clara,  I  have  been  commissioned  to  invite  you  to  spend  several  days  with 
us,  until  you  can  select  a  boarding-house.  Dr.  Hartwell  will  be  glad  to 
have  you  come." 

"  Did  he  say  so  ?  "  asked  the  mourner,  shading  her  face  with  her  hand. 

"  He  told  me  I  must  bring  you  home  with  me,"  answered  Beulah. 

"  Oh,  how  good,  how  noble  he  is  1  Beulah,  you  are  lucky,  lucky  indeed." 
She  dropped  her  head  on  her  arms. 

"  Clara,  I  believe  there  is  less  difference  in  our  positions  than  you  seem  to 
imagine.  We  are  both  orphans,  and  in  about  a  year  I  too  shall  be  a  teacher. 
Dr.  Hartwell  is  my  guardian  and  protector,  but  he  will  be  a  kind  friend  to 
you  also." 

"  Beulah,  you  are  mad,  to  dream  of  leaving  him,  and  turning  teacher !  I 
am  older  than  you,  and  have  travelled  over  the  very  track  that  you  are  so 
eager  to  set  out  upon.  Oh,  take  my  advice  ;  stay  where  you  are !  Would 
you  leave  summer  sunshine  for  the  icebergs  of  Arctic  night?  Silly  girl, 
appreciate  your  good  fortune." 

"  Can  it  be  possible,  Clara,  that  you  are  fainting  so  soon?  Where  are  all 
your  firm  resolves?  If  it  is  your  duty,  what  matter  the  difficulties?  "  She 
looked  down,  pityingly,  on  her  companion,  as  in  olden  time  one  of  the  ath 
lete  might  have  done  upon  a  drooping  comrade. 

"  Necessity  knows  no  conditions,  Beulah.  I  have  no  alternative  but  to 
labor  in  that  horrible  treadmill-round,  day  after  day.  You  are  more  fortu 
nate;  can  have  a  home  of  elegance,  luxury  and^" 

"  And  dependence !  Would  you  be  willing  to  change  places  with  me,  and 
indolently  wait  for  others  to  maintain  you?"  interrupted  Beulah,  looking 
keenly  at  the  wan,  yet  lovely  face  before  her. 


AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS.  579 

"  Ah,  gladly,  if  I  had  been  selected  as  you  were.  Once,  I  too  felt  hopeful 
and  joyous ;  but  now  life  is  dreary,  almost  a  burden.  Be  warned,  Beulah  ; 
don't  suffer  your  haughty  spirit  to  make  you  reject  the  offered  home  that 
may  be  yours." 

There  was  a  strong  approach  to  contempt  in  the  expression  with  which 
Beulah  regarded  her  as  the  last  words  were  uttered,  and  she  answered  coldly : 

"  You  are  less  a  woman  than  I  thought  you,  if  you  would  be  willing  to  live 
on  the  bounty  of  others  when  a  little  activity  would  enable  you  to  support 
yourself." 

"  Ah,  Beulah !  it  is  not  only  the  bread  you  eat,  or  the  clothes  that  you 
wear ;  it  is  sympathy  and  kindness,  love  and  watchfulness.  It  is  this  that  a 
woman  wants.  Oh !  was  her  heart  made,  think  you,  to  be  rilled  with  gram 
mars  and  geographies  and  copy-books  ?  Can  the  feeling  that  you  are  inde 
pendent  and  doing  your  duty,  satisfy  the  longing  for  other  idols?  Oh  !  Duty 
is  an  icy  shadow.  It  will  freeze  you.  It  cannot  fill  the  heart's  sanctuary. 
Woman  was  intended  as  a  pet  plant,  to  be  guarded  and  cherished ;  isolated 
and  uncared  for,  she  droops,  languishes,  and  dies."  Ah !  the  dew-sparkle 
had  exhaled,  and  the  morning  glory  had  vanished ;  the  noontide  heat  of  the 
conflict  was  creeping  on,  and  she  was  sinking  down,  impotent  to  continue 
the  struggle. 

"  Clara  Sanders,  I  don't  believe  one  word  of  all  this  languishing  nonsense. 
As  to  my  being  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  sickly  geranium,  I  know  bet 
ter.  If  you  have  concluded  that  you  belong  to  that  dependent  family  of 
plants,  I  pity  you  sincerely,  and  beg  that  you  will  not  put  me  in  any  such 
category.  Duty  may  be  a  cold  shadow  to  you,  but  it  is  a  vast  volcanic  agen 
cy,  constantly  impelling  me  to  action.  What  was  my  will  given  to  me  for, 
if  to  remain  passive  and  suffer  others  to  minister  to  its  needs.  Don't  talk  to 
me  about  woman's  clinging,  dependent  nature.  You  are  opening  your  lips 
to  repeat  that  senseless  simile  of  oaks  and  vines :  I  don't  want  to  hear  it ; 
there  are  no  creeping  tendencies  about  me.  You  can  wind,  and  lean,  and 
hang  on  somebody  else,  if  you  like ;  but  I  feel  more  like  one  of  those  old 
pine-trees  yonder.  I  can  stand  up.  Very  slim,  if  you  will,  but  straight  and 
high.  Stand  by  myself ;  battle  with  wind  and  rain,  and  tempest- roar ;  be 
swayed  and  bent,  perhaps,  in  the  storm,  but  stand  unaided,  nevertheless.  I 
feel  humbled  when  I  hear  a  woman  bemoaning  the  weakness  of  her  sex,  in 
stead  of  showing  that  she  has  a  soul  and  mind  of  her  own,  inferior  to  none." 

"  All  that  sounds  very  heroic  in  the  pages  of  a  novel,  but  the  reality  is 
quite  another  matter.  A  tame,  joyless,  hopeless  time  you  will  have  if  you 
scorn  good-fortune,  as  you  threaten,  and  go  into  the  world  to  support  your 
self,"  answered  Clara  impatiently. 

"  I  would  rather  struggle  with  her  for  a  crust  than  hang  on  her  garments 
asking  a  palace.  I  don't  know  what  has  come  over  you.  You  are  strangely 
changed,"  cried  Beulah,  pressing  her  hands  on  her  friend's  shoulders. 

"  The  same  change  will  come  over  you  when  you  endure  what  I  have. 


680  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

"With  all  your  boasted  strength,  you  are  but  a  woman,  have  a  woman's  heart, 

and  one  day  will  be  unable  to  hush  its  hungry  cries." 

"Then  I  will  crush  it;  so  help  me  heaven!"  answered  Beulah.     ' 

"  No !  sorrow  will  do  that  time  enough ;  no  suicidal  effort  will  be  necessary." 


AFTER  THE  FUNERAL. 

Back  to  a  desert  home,  whence  the  crown  of  joy  had  been  borne.  What 
a  hideous  rack  stands  at  the  hearth-stone,  whereon  merciless  memory  stretches 
the  bereaved  ones  I  In  hours  such  as  this,  we  cry  out  fiercely :  "  The  sun  of 
our  life  has  gone  down  in  starless,  everlasting  night ;  earth  has  no  more 
glory,  no  more  bloom  or  fragrance  for  us ;  the  voices  of  gleeful  children,  the 
carol  of  summer  birds,  take  the  mournful  measure  of  a  dirge.  We  hug  this 
great  grief  to  our  hearts ;  we  hold  our  darling  dead  continually  before  us, 
and  refuse  to  be  glad  again."  We  forget  that  Prometheus  has  passed  from 
the  world.  Time  bears  precious  healing  on  its  broad  pinions ;  folds  its  arms 
compassionately  about  us  as  a  pitying  father ;  softly  binds  up  the  jagged 
wounds,  drugs  memory,  and  though  the  poisonous  sting  is  occasionally 
thrust  forth,  she  soon  relapses  into  stupor.  So,  in  the  infinite  mercy  of  our 
God,  close  at  the  heels  of  Azrael  follow  the  winged  hours,  laden,  like  Sisters 
of  Charity,  with  balm  for  the  people. 


RUNNING  THE  BLOCKADE. 

"  Well,  Miss  Grey,  I  shall  place  you  on  Confederate  soil  to-morrow,  God 
willing." 

"  Then  you  are  going  to  Mobile?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  shall  try  hard  to  get  in  there  early  in  the  morning.  You  will 
know  your  fate  before  many  hours." 

"  Do  you  regard  this  trial  as  particularly  hazardous?  " 

"Of  course;  the  blockading  squadrons  grow  more  efficient  and  expert 
every  day,  and  some  danger  necessarily  attends  every  trial.  Mobile  ought  to 
be  pretty  well  guarded  by  this  time." 

The  wind  was  favorable,  and  the  schooner  ploughed  its  way  swiftly  through 
the  autumn  night.  The  captain  did  not  close  his  eyes;  and  just  about  day 
light,  Electra  and  Eric,  aroused  by  a  sudden  running  to  and  fro,  rose,  and 
simultaneously  made  their  appearance  on  deck. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Wright?" 

"  Matter !  why,  look  ahead,  my  dear  fellow,  and  see  where  we  are.  Yon 
der  is  Sand  Island  light-house,  and  a  little  to  the  right  is  Fort  Morgan.  But 


AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS.  581 

the  fleet  to  the  left  is  hardly  six  miles  off,  and  it  will  be  a  tight  race  if  I 
get  in." 

There*  was  but  a  glimmering  light  rimming  the  east,  where  two  or  three 
stars  burned  with  indescribable  brilliance  and  beauty,  and  in  the  gray  haze 
and  wreaths  of  mist  which  curled  over  the  white-capped  waves,  Electra  could 
distinguish  nothing.  The  air  was  chill,  and  she  said,  with  a  slight  shiver : 

"  I  can't  see  any  light-house." 

"  There  is,  of  course,  no  light  there,  these  war  times ;  but  you  see  that 
tall,  white  tower,  don't  you?  There,  look  through  my  glass.  That  low, 
dark  object  yonder  is  the  outline  of  the  fort;  you  will  see  it  more  distinctly 
after  a  little.  Now,  look  right  where  my  finger  points ;  that  is  the  flag-staff. 
Look  up  overhead  —  I  have  hoisted  our  flag,  and  pretty  soon  it  will  be  a  tar 
get  for  those  dogs.  Ha !  Mitchell !  Hutchinson !  they  see  us !  There  is 
some  movement  among  them.  They  are  getting  ready  to  cut  us  off  this  side 
of  the  Swash  channel !  We  shall  see." 

He  had  crowded  on  all  sail,  and  the  little  vessel  dashed  through  the  light 
fog  as  if  conscious  of  her  danger,  and  resolved  to  sustain  herself  gallantly. 
Day  broke  fully,  sea  and  sky  took  the  rich  orange  tint  which  only  autumn 
mornings  give,  and  in  this  glow  a  Federal  frigate  and  sloop  slipped  from 
their  moorings,  and  bore  down  threateningly  on  the  graceful,  bounding 
schooner. 

"  But  for  the  fog  which  puzzled  me  about  three  o'clock,  I  should  have  run 
by  unseen,  and  they  never  would  have  known  it  till  I  was  safe  in  Navy 
Cove.  We  will  beat  them,  though,  as  it  is,  by  about  twenty  minutes.  An 
hour  ago  I  was  afraid  I  should  have  to  beach  her.  Are  you  getting  fright 
ened,  Miss  Grey  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  would  not  have  missed  this  for  any  consideration.  How  rap 
idly  the  Federal  vessels  move !  They  are  gaining  on  us." 

Her  curling  hair,  damp  with  mist,  clustered  around  her  forehead ;  she  had 
wrapped  a  scarlet  crape  shawl  about  her  shoulders,  and  stood,  with  her  red 
lips  apart  and  trembling,  watching  the  exciting  race. 

"  Look  at  the  frigate !  " 

There  was  a  flash  at  her  bow,  a  curl  of  white  smoke  rolled  up,  then  a 
heavy  roar,  and  a  thirty-two  pounder  round  shot  fell  about  a  hundred 
yards  to  the  right  of  the  vessel. 

A  yell  of  defiance  rent  the  air  from  the  crew  of  the  "  Dixie  "  —  hats  were 
waved  —  and,  snatching  off  her  shawl,  Electra  shook  its  bright  folds  to  the 
stiffening  breeze,  while  her  hot  cheeks  matched  them  in  depth  of  color. 

Another  and  another  shot  was  fired  in  quick  succession,  and  so  accurate 
hjfe  they  become,  that  the  last  whizzed  through  the  rigging,  cutting  one  of 
the  small  ropes. 

"  Humph !  they  are  getting  saucy,"  said  the  captain,  looking  up  coolly, 
when  the  yells  of  his  crew  ceased  for  a  moment — and  with  a  humorous 
twinkle  in  his  fine  eyes,  he  added : 


582  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

..  lirl-iw.  Mi—  Civy:  they  might  clip  one  of  your  curls  next  time. 
Tin-  Vandals  see  you,  I  dare  say,  and  your  red  flag  stings  their  Yankee  pride 
a  little." 

"  Do  you  suppose  they  can  distinguish  me?  " 

"  Certainly.  Through  my  glass  I  can  see  the  gunners  at  work  ;  and,  of 
«'Min>r.  they  see  you.  Should  not  be  surprised  if  they  aimed  specially  at 
you.  That  is  the  style  of  New  England  chivalry." 

Whiz  —  whiz  ; — -l>oth  sloop  and  frigate  were  firing  now  in  good  earnc-t. 
and  one  shell  exploded  a  few  yards  from  the  side  of  the  little  vessel,  tossing 
the  foam  and  water  over  the  group  on  deck. 

"They  think  you  have  hardly  washed  your  face  yet,  Miss  Grey  ;  and  are 
courteously  anxious  to  perform  the  operation  for  you.  But  the  game  is  up. 
Look  yonder.  Hurrah  for  Dixie  and  Fort  Morgan !  " 

From  the  dim  flag-staff  battery  bellowed  a  gun. 

The  boom  of  a  columbiad  from  the  fort  shook  the  air  like  thunder,  and 
gave  to  the  blockaders  the  unmistakable  assurance,  "  Thus  far,  and  no  far 
ther." 

The  schooner  strained  on  its  way  ;  a  few  shot  fell  behind,  and  soon,  under 
the  frowning  bastions  of  the  fort,  whence  the  Confederate  banner  floated  so 
proudly  on  the  balmy  Gulf  breeze,  spreading  its  free  folds  like  an  aegis,  the 
gallant  little  vessel  passed  up  the  channel,  and  came  to  anchor  in  Mobile 
Bay,  amid  the  shouts  of  crew  and  garrison,  and  welcomed  by  a  salute  of 
five  guns. 


THE  MODERN  MACAEIA. 

The  canvas,  which  she  leaned  forward  to  inspect  more  closely,  contained 
an  allegorical  design  representing,  in  the  foreground,  two  female  figures : 
one  stern,  yet  noble-featured,  crowned  with  stars,  triumph  and  exultation 
flashing  in  the  luminous  eyes  —  Independence,  crimson-mantled,  grasping  the 
Confederate  banner  of  the  Cross,  whose  victorious  folds  streamed  above  a 
captured  battery,  where  a  Federal  flag  trailed  in  the  dust.  At  her  side  stood 
white-robed,  angelic  Peace,  with  one  hand  over  the  touch-hole  of  the  can 
non  against  which  she  leaned,  and  the  other  extended  in  benediction.  Viv 
idly  the  faces  contrasted — one  all  athrob  with  national  pride,  beaming  with 
brilliant  destiny;  the  other  wonderfully  serene  and  holy.  In  the  distance, 
gloaming  in  the  evening  light  which  streamed  from  the  west,  tents  dotted  a 
hillside  ;  and,  intermediate  between  Peace  and  the  glittering  tents,  stretched 
a  torn,  stained  battle-field,  over  which  the  roar  and  rush  of  conflict  had  just 
swept,  leavinir  mangled  heaps  of  dead  in  attestation  of  its  fury.  Among 
the  trampled,  bloody  sheaves  of  wheat,  an  aged,  infirm  Niobe  mother  bent 
in  tearless  anguish,  pressing  her  hand  upon  the  pulseless  heart  of  a  hand 
some  boy  of  sixteen  summers,  whose  yellow  locks  were  dabbled  from  his 


AUGUSTA    J.    EVANS.  583 

« 

death-wound.  A  few  steps  farther,  a  lovely,  young  wife,  kneeling  beside 
the  stalwart,  rigid  form  of  her  husband,  whose  icy  fingers  still  clutched  his 
broken  sword,  lifted  her  woful,  ashen  face  to  heaven  in  mute  despair ;  while 
the  fair-browed  infant  on  the  ground  beside  her,  dipped  its  little,  snowy, 
dimpled  feet  in  a  pool  of  its  father's  blood,  and,  with  tears  of  terror  still 
glistening  on  its  cheeks,  laughed  at  the  scarlet  coloring.  Just  beyond  these 
mourners,  a  girl  of  surpassing  beauty,  whose  black  hair  floated  like  a  sable 
banner  on  the  breeze,  clasped  her  rounded  arms  about  her  dead  patriot  lover, 
and  kept  her  sad  vigil  in  voiceless  agony  —  with  all  of  Sparta's  stern  stoicism 
in  her  blanched,  stony  countenance.  And,  last  of  the  stricken  groups,  a 
faithful  dog,  crouching  close  to  the  corpse  of  an  old  silver-haired  man,  threw 
back  his  head  and  howled  in  desolation.  Neither  blue  shadows,  nor  wreath 
ing,  rosy  mists,  nor  golden  haze  of  sunset  glory  softened  the  sacrificial  scene, 
which  showed  its  grim  features  strangely  solemn  in  the  weird,  fading,  cre 
puscular  light. 


I.  M.  PORTER  HENRY. 

MRS.  HENRY  is  perhaps  best  known  as  a  contributor  to  General 
Hill's  magazine,  "The  Land  we  Love,"  and  other  Southern  pa 
pers  and  magazines,  under  her  maiden  name  of  Ina  M.  Porter,  also 
publishing  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "  Ethel  Hope."  She  is  a  native 
of  Tuscaloosa,  Ala.,  a  daughter  of  Judge  B.  F.  Porter,  a  South  Caro 
linian  by  birth,  and  the  writer  of  occasional  verses  of  considerable 
poetic  merit.  Mrs.  Henry  from  a  very  early  age  indulged  in  litera 
ture,  always  happy  when  she  was  able  to  sit  near  her  father  and  write. 

For  several  years,  her  "  youthful "  muse  sang  Indian  legends,  vague 
fancies,  the  beauties  of  her  mountain  home,  and  revelled  in  the  mists 
which,  shrouded  the  rolling  hills,  or  grew  ecstatic  on  the  bosom  of  the 
lovely  Tennessee  River ;  yet  she  wandered,  sighing  for  some  deeper  song 
to  sing.  She  felt  that  power  within  her  which  must  be  perfected 
through  deeper  emotions  than  those  called  forth  by  the  calm  beauty 
of  nature,  some  key-note  more  sublime  than  caves,  chasms,  and  mighty 
waters.  It  came  —  when  the  war-cry  sounded  through  our  land,  she 
knew  that  the  "  South  "  was  her  theme. 

Through  the  sufferings  of  her  countrymen  and  women,  she  learned 
that  poets  could  find  no  higher  strain  than  love  of  right  and  hate  of 
wrong  —  no  holier  subject  than  truth. 

Judge  Porter  made  his  home  in  Greenville ;  now  a  thriving  little 
town,  on  the  line  of  the  Mobile  and  Montgomery  Railroad. 

Miss  Porter  wrote  a  play  during  the  second  year  of  the  war,  entitled 
"  None  but  the  Brave  Deserve  the  Fair,"  which  was  performed  at  the 
Mobile  Theatre,  and  subsequently  at  Greenville,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
"  Confederate  Soldiers."  In  Simms's  "  War  Poetry  of  the  South,"  "  La 
ment  for  Mumford  "  and  several  other  poems  commemorative  of  the 
struggle  of  the  South  appear  from  this  drama.  Miss  Porter's  prose  arti 
cles  during  the  war  were  mostly  on  topics  of  local  interest,  or  upon 
some  practical  question  applicable  to  the  wants  and  means  of  aiding 
our  soldiers. 

The  "  Roadside  Stories,"  appearing  in  "  The  Land  we  Love,"  were 
truly  excellent  pictures  of  "  life  in  Dixie."  Few,  to  read  them,  would 

f-  584 


I.    M.    PORTER    HENRY.  585 

think  they  were  written  under  adverse  circumstances  —  written  during 
that  period  of  desolation  which  followed  the  surrender  of  the  "  Con 
federate  cause." 

Judge  Porter's  family  shared  the  common  heritage  of  Southrons,  and 
were  left  with  little  to  wear  and  little  to  eat;  and  to  add  to  these  "evils," 
sickness  surrounded  them. 

A  friend  tells  me  that  Miss  Ina  Porter  and  her  mother  were  the 
only  available  workers  on  the  place  —  all  the  others  sick,  and  the  ser 
vants  all  left,  except  one,  a  girl,  who  had  the  small-pox,  and  was  of 
no  assistance.  Mrs.  Porter  was  physician  and  nurse,  and  Miss  Ina 
cook  and  maid  of  all  work.  Under  these  circumstances,  not  favor 
able  to  literary  labors,  the  "  Roadside  Stories  "  were  written.  We 
mention  these  facts  to  show  the  heroic  spirit  that  animated  one  of  our 
bright  stars  among  "  Southland  Writers,"  and  can  truly  say  she  is  but 
a  representative  of  the  many  in  her  "  will  to  do." 

In  October,  1867,  Miss  Porter  was  married  to  Mr.  George  L.  Henry, 
and  continues  to  reside  near  Greenville,  Butler  County,  Ala.  She 
continues  to  "  wield  her  pen  "  when  other  duties  and  health  permit  — 
for,  we  regret  to  say,  her  health  has  not  been  good,  and  the  death  of 
her  father  was  a  severe  blow.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Henry  have  begun  the 
battle  of  life  with  "  Confederate  weapons,"  warm  hearts  and  strong 
wills ;  and  success  and  happiness  must  crown  their  hearth-stone. 


KIMMER. 

I  stand  before  thee,  Rimmer, 
And  as  thy  chosen  wife 

Am  exultant  in  the  glory  — 
Crowning  glory  of  my  life. 

Wind  no  rosy  veil  about  me, 
My  actual  self  to  hide ; 

As  a  real  —  not  ideal  — 

Look  upon  your  future  bride. 

You  smile  at  my  odd  fancies ; 

Smile  —  but  know  me  as  I  am, 
Or  our  voices  ne'er  can  mingle 

In  the  holy  marriage-psalm. 


SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

You  flatter  me,  gay  Rimmer ; 

You  call  my  eyes  sky-bright ! 
Have  you  seen  the  blue  skies  darken 

At  the  falling  of  the  night? 

You  vow  my  cheeks  are  petals 

From  living  roses  rent ; 
Ah,  the  roses  wither,  Rimmer, 

When  the  summer  shine  is  spent ! 

There !  my  unbound  hair  you  're  calling 

Golden  eddies  of  the  morn ! 
Do  you  know  the  dawn-waves  whiten 

When  the  yellow  sun  is  gone  ? 

If  you  love  me,  if  you  trust  me, 

Erring,  human,  as  you  see, 
Give  your  honor  to  my  keeping, 

As  I  give  my  own  to  thee. 

My  life  I  cast  before  thee ; 

Its  pages  lie  unclaspt  ; 
Read  from  alpha  to  omega, 

Judge  the  future  by  the  past. 

Canst  thou  mete  as  I  have  measured 
Truth  as  boundless  as  the  sea  ? 

Speak  !  my  heart  will  not  be  broken  — 
Ha !  't  is  glorious  to  be  free ! 

Oh,  forgivte  me,  noble  Rimmer  I 

No  love  nor  faith  I  lack ; 
But  the  wedding  robes  are  holy 

As  the  coffin's  solemn  black  ! 

Our  souls  are  God's,  not  ours  — 

My  heart  is  all  I  bring ; 
Lift  me  higher,  royal  lover ; 

I  crown  thee  —  O  my  king ! 


CCEAN  SIGHS. 

A  sigh-laden,  whispering  shell  of  the  sea 
Whispers  a  tale  of  the  deep  to  me; 


I.    M.    PORTER    HENRY.  587 

It  echoes  the  moans, 

The  sobs  and  the  groans, 

That  were  heard  one  night  on  the  roaring  wave, 

When  a  ship  went  down  no  hand  could  save. 

I  shuddering  list  to  the  sighs  and  moans, 

The  piteous  shrieks  and  maddening  groans, 

And  wish  they  could  sleep 

In  the  moaning  deep, 

And  nought  but  murmurs  sweet  and  low 

Could  rise  as  the  waves  reel  to  and  fro. 

Shell  of  the  sea,  listen  to  me, 

Cease  that  wild,  shuddering  song  of  the  sea ! 

Some  spirit  bright 

Went  down  that  night, 

Chanting  a  paean  of  joy  and  peace ; 

Thy  sighing  and  groaning,  thy  shuddering  cease ! 

Ah,  faintly  it  floateth.    Hush!    Mark  the  soft  tone 

Dreamily,  dreamily  sighing  alone! 

A  lullaby  motion 

Stirs  the  green  ocean, 

And  heaves  from  its  bosom  a  boat  of  bright  shells, 

Her  topmast  aglow  with  silver-tongued  bells. 

Dark  spirits,  be  still !    Whence  cometh  that  light  ? 

Are  moonbeams  or  starbeams  so  dazzling  to  sight? 

A  voice  in  the  air 

Sighs  —  'tis  the  bright  hair 

Of  an  earth-cradled  maiden  lost  in  the  sea, 

Lulling  the  storm  with  her  sweet  lullaby. 

Her  wistful  blue  eyes  are  watching  a  sail 

That  soareth  on  proudly,  through  calm  or  fierce  gale; 

I  hear  the  shell  say, 

As  the  moans  die  away, 

That  her  prayers  nutter  upward  on  silvery  beams, 

Like  white-breasted  doves  cleave  the  sky  of  our  dreams. 

Two  white  arms  encircle  her  lover  alway, 

Her  floating  hair  spangled  with  glittering  spray ; 

Awaking  or  sleeping, 

The  love-watch  she  's  keeping  ; 

And  bright  is  the  path  o'er  the  ocean's  soft  breast, 

With  her  hand  on  the  helm  and  the  sailor  at  rest. 


588  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Come,  dreamer,  and  list,  ere  the  vision  has  flown; 

The  ocean-bell's  chime  is  dying  —  is  gone ! 

But  I  wonder  no  more, 

Bright  shell  of  the  shore, 

That  a  voice  wild  and  thrilling,  yet  sweet  as  can  be, 

Floats  weird-like  and  solemn  across  the  deep  sea! 


MISERERE. 
Holy  Mary! 

Thou  hast  known  the  woe  of  life, 
Thou  art  past  the  bitter  strife: 
Look  upon  us  from  thy  rest, 
Bear  our  sorrow  on  thy  breast, 
Holy  Mary ! 

By  thy  gentle  name  I  bear, 
By  this  womanhood  I  wear 
Broken-hearted!   let  me  lean 
On  thy  bosom,  Heaven-Queen ! 
Miserere ! 

Holy  Mary! 

Does  the  blood,  heroic  shed, 

Cry  in  vain  ?    Alas,  our  dead ! 

May  I  see  the  patriot's  name 

High  in  heaven,  through  sword  and  flame, 

Holy  Mary! 

May  the  purple  path  they  trod 

Lead  my  weary  feet  to  God ; 

Slumberers  on  historic  plain, 

Teach  my  hand  to  wear  its  chain. 

Miserere  I 

Holy  Mary ! 

Crown  the  victors;  they  have  won 

Freedom  through  thy  martyred  Son: 

Lo!  the  silvered  Cross  is  high, 

Borne  aloft  to  Southern  sky  I 

Holy  Mary ! 

Gloria !   for  those  who  fell 

On  their  spotless  shields ;  't  is  well ! 

Sigh  thou  with  us  —  stricken  band, 

Miserere,  motherland  I 

Miserere ! 


I.    M.    PORTER    HENRY.  589 

Holy  Mary! 

Giant  sorrows  drag  their  length, 

Noiseless  in  their  deadly  strength ; 

I  have  wept L—  ah,  let  me  weep ! 

Bock  my  tearless  heart  to  sleep, 

Holy  Mary ! 

Guide  me  to  thy  sweet  relief; 

By  our  sisterhood  of  grief, 

Bear  the  Father  every  cry, 

"Woman-angel !   sigh  for  sigh  I 

Miserere ! 


OUR  DEAD. 

Written  for  the  Anniversary  of  the  Floral  Decoration,  April  26,  1863. 

The  evening  shadows  lift  themselves  and  turn 

Toward  the  west,  whene'er  the  pure-faced  moon 

Comes  out  with  silver  wand  to  watch  the  world. 

Thus,  when  an  angel-sentry  walks  the  earth, 

Or  stands  in  breathless  beauty  o'er  Our  Dead, 

The  greatness  of  my  sacred  theme  revealed, 

I  shrink  away  in  silent  awe.    My  hands 

Are  filled  to  finger-tips  with  silent  love; 

My  head  bows  down  with  holy  reverence, 

And  I  can  only  cry,    Alas,  Our  Slain! 

Traitors  —  assassins  —  they  are  called,  because 

They  dared  to  stand  as  bulwarks  round  our  homes. 

They  stood  —  they  fought  —  they  fell  —  as  did  the  Greeks 

Around  Etolia's  walls;  and  we  who  live 

Are  only  left  to  toil  in  blackened  woe, 

To  shameless  grief  and  utter  misery! 

To  mark  the  bloody  path  across  our  land 

O'er  heaps  of  bones,  and  barren,  ashen  plains ; 

To  hear  the  cry  of  Bachel  while  she  sits 

Like  some  lone  bird  beside  her  ruined  nest, 

Who  calls,  and  calls  her  missing  ones  in  vain ! 

They  fell.    Thank  God,  the  Dead,  at  least,  are  free ! 

There  are  shafts  of  spotless  crystalline  that  rear 
Themselves,  at  God's  behest,  beyond  the  stars; 
The  noblest  shaft  is  reared  to  Martyrdom. 
It  bears  upon  its  beauteous  shining  scroll 


590  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Coeval  dates  with  birth  of  worlds  —  andlo! 

The  loftiest  name  was  called  from  Bethlehem. 

Ah  !  those  whose  garments  trail  in  their  own  blood 

Have  placed  their  names  anear  the  aureole 

That  clothes  His  name  —  the  God-man,  Jesus  Christ. 

Oh !  countless  thousands  sheathed  their  dripping  swords, 

And  laid  themselves,  in  tattered  gray,  to  wait 

And  rise  in  ranks,  at  muster-roll  of  God! 

Can  we  forget?    Say,  can  a  father's  curse 

Rest  on  the  son  who  died  for  Honor's  cause? 

And  can  a  mother  slay  her  first-born  child? 

Can  comrades  cease  to  think  of  those  who  bore 

The  brunt  of  conflict,  marching  side  by  side  — 

Forget  how  youth  forgot  his  beardless  face, 

Made  battle  beauteous  with  his  val'rous  arm, 

And  reared  his  living  walls  across  the  plain, 

Or  closed  the  dear,  dead  eyes,  when  all  was  o'er? 

Can  sisters  coldly  touch  the  honored  blade 

That  lies  across  a  fallen  brother's  bier? 

Ah !  can  the  grave  with  all  its  cold,  cold  bands 

Confine  the  soul?   or  life  with  heartless  sounds 

Drown  the  sad  wail  of  love  in  widowed  hearts? 

Man  has  the  electric  current  i»  his  grasp, 

But  can  he  turn  one  flash  upon  its  way? 

The  Atlantic  holds  a  cord  within  her  breast 

That  thrills  two  hemispheres,  and  bears  a  word 

In  wondrous  motion  through  the  pathless  deep; 

But  who,  save  God,  can  bid  one  wave,  "  Be  still  J" 

Ay,  point  thy  swords  to  yonder  cloud,  and  guard 

The  lurid  light  within  its  awful  folds, 

And  bind  one  wavelet  of  the  restless  sea, 

Ere  Southern  hearts  forget  our  Southern  dead! 

No  drums  are  heard,  save  those  whose  muffled  beat 

Are  heard  in  homes  where  black-robed  women  sit 

I'.y  vacant  chairs,  to  lean  the  pallid  cheek 

Against  the  folded  suit  of  faded  gray, 

And  kiss  its  stains;  or  turn  at  every  sound 

To  watch  for  those  who  never,  never  come ! 

Or  in  the  breasts  of  little  ones,  who  hear, 

With  wondering  eye  and  flushing  cheek,  of  him 

Who  went  away,  and  never  came  again ! 

Our  flag  is  folded  o'er  our  darling  dead; 

And,  like  Merope's  gentle  face,  that  turns 


I.    M.    POBTEE     HENEY.  591 

Upon  her  sister  Pleiades  with  tears, 

Its  cross  is  blurred  with  mists  of  human  woe ! 

Its  folds  are  bloody  as  the  bannered  west, 

When  slowly  through  the  castled  clouds  there  float 

The  kingly  colors  of  the  setting  sun : 

But  search  its  field  —  thou  canst  not  find  one  blot 

Of  shame,  to  make  us  curse  the  day  they  died ! 

We  hand  them  thus,  in  stainless  winding-sheet, 

Back  to  the  God  who  gave,  and  called  them  home ! 

As  long  as  April  hangs  his  light  green  shield 

Upon  the  dark-clad  forests  of  the  South, 

And  in  his  dewy  mantle  comes  to  kiss 

The  blush  upon  the  cheek  of  queenly  May, 

Or  plume  with  feathery  ash  her  spotless  brow, 

Let  vet'rans  (battle-scarred)  repeat  the  tale; 

And  while  we  women  list,  (with  kindling  cheek,) 

We  '11  twine  the  new-born  flowers  of  spring,  and  gem 

Their  fragile  cups  with  homage  true  of  tears. 

We'll  bid  the  laughing  birds,  that  learned  to  sing 

In  happier  days,  to  hush  their  songs,  and  fly 

Across  the  Gulf  to  where,  in  Torrid  heat, 

The  Arawanda  hides  among  the  palms, 

With  lifted  head  and  drooping  wing,  to  toll 

The  weird,  sad  music  of  her  mystic  bell. 

Ay,  while  we  wander  through  the  land  of  graves, 

To  lay  our  gifts  of  love  on  every  mound, 

Fair  bell-bird,  Arawanda,  come  and  rest 

In  snowy  flocks  upon  our  sighing  pines ; 

Here  in  the  sweet  magnolia  dip  thy  spotless  beak, 

And  toll  a  chorus,  while  we  maidens  chant 

A  nation's  requiem  for  her  sleeping  sonsl 


DIRGE. 
(AiR  —  "I  would  not  live  alway.") 

Bend  low,  weeping  willows,  our  harps  must  be  strung, 
Our  princes  have  fallen,  their  dirge  must  be  sung ! 
A  paean  of  glory  ^for  heights  they  have  gained, 
A  low  wail  of  sadness  for  captives  unchained ! 

Let  it  rise  from  the  valleys  in  heart-thrilling  song, 
Till  hundred- voiced  mountains  its  echoes  prolong ; 


592  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

On  through  the  Gulf  waters,  by  Southern  breeze  whirled, 
The  requiem  sounds  o'er  the  sea  to  the  world  1 

Nay,  hush  thy  loud  pealing,  thou  merry-lipped  bell, 
The  spires  standing  silent  our  story  can  tell ; 
Peal  softly  and  sweetly,  and  blend  in  the  sky 
The  call  to  a  bridal  with  notes  of  a  sigh  I 

Blow  gently,  wind-trumpets,  among  the  fresh  flowers, 

That  rise  from  the  bosoms  of  loved  ones  of  ours ; 

They  have  drawn  their-rich  hues  and  their  sweet-scented  breath 

From  the  hearts  of  dead  heroes,  from  gardens  of  Death  ! 

Bring  myrtle,  magnolia,  bay,  orange,  and  lime, 
With  boughs  of  green  palm  in  its  stateliest  prime  ; 
Bring  straight,  slender  cedars,  as  types  of  their  youth, 
And  white-hearted  lilies,  to  witness  their  truth. 

Ked  roses,  that  bear  in  the  depths  of  your  breast 
The  stain  of  lost  battles,  that  bloom  where  They  rest, 
Above  the  long  file  of  the  soldiers  asleep, 
Ye  lift  happy  faces,  while  we  mourners  weep ! 

Ye  speak,  through  the  tints  of  each  beautiful  cheek, 
A  wisdom  more  lofty  than  mortals  can  speak ; 
Of  a  Hand  that  has  touched  you,  and  lo,  from  the  tomb 
Ye  are  risen,  from  ashes  to  loveliest  bloom ! 

Faith  tells  us  they  live  on  the  shores  of  the  blest, 
The  Great  Shepherd  watches  His  flock  while  they  rest ; 
But  orphans  an-hungered  cry  out  for  the  slain 
And  pale  women  shudder  with  heart-breaking  pain. 

0  roses,  with  faces  like  widows,  dead-white, 

Mute  watchers  by  grave-stones,  say,  what  of  the  night  ? 
Ah,  sweets,  ye  are  voiceless  as  they,  and  your  bloom 
Is  spotless  as  angels' ;  watch  on  by  the  tomb. 

But,  by  the  long  watch  o'er  our  graves  ye  have  kept, 
By  every  heart  broken,  by  every  tear  wept, 

1  charge  ye,  fair  flowers,  these  tokens  to  bear 

To  the  dead,  love  eternal  —  to  the  living,  a  prayer! 

A\  inds,  forests,  and  flowers  the  same  message  tell 
Of  rest  for  the  weary  who  fought  the  fight  well  — 
Of  homes  for  the  homeless  —  of  tears  wiped  away  — 
Of  crowned,  faithful  servants  —  of  night  lost  in  day  ! 


I.    M.    PORTER    HENRY.  593 

The  same  which  was  spoken  where  Lazarus  slept, 

When  the  head  of  our  Saviour  bowed  down  while  he  wept : 

To  sorrowing  women  He  speaks  now  as  then, 

(And  weeps  with  us,  Southrons,)  Our  Dead  rise  again ! 

Eternal  Justice  speed  the  day  when  Truth 

Stamps  Falsehood  in  the  dust,  and  cries,  "  Oh,  shame  I " 

Till  then  we  mourn  for  those  who  fell  asleep. 

Recording  angel !  thine 's  the  hand  to  pen 

The  glorious  history  of  each  nameless  grave  I 

Thine  to  record  our  unrecorded  dead  ! 

Oh,  they  have  died  as  mighty  men  of  old ; 

As  crowned  princes  lead  them  up  to  God ! 

As  Danish  sailors  stay  the  graceful  oar 
To  watch  Vineta's  spires,  and  hear  her  bells 
Chiming  beneath  the  waves  of  Rligen's  lake, 
They  tell  in  whispers  of  a  time  to  come, 
When  solid  earth  shall  heave  each  placid  wave, 
Till  from  her  hold  they  shrink  away  appalled  — 
Then  men  shall  marvel  when  they  see  arise 
A  peopled  city  from  her  deep-sea  grave, 
Awakened  from  her  wondrous  sleep  of  years  — 
Thus  I  await,  with  patient  trust,  God's  time. 

This  wreath  of  loving  words  and  sparkling  tears 

I  gather  from  the  garden  of  my  heart, 

And  offer,  kneeling,  to  my  country's  sons. 

I  pray  each  faithful  heart  to  come  with  me 

To  every  sacred  spot  where  Southrons  lie : 

With  folded  arms,  they  dream  sweet  dreams  of  home, 

Regardless  of  the  foe  —  GOD  is  ON  GUARD  ! 

Sleep  on,  brave  men,  nor  heed  the  rush  of  worlds ; 
Nor  taunt,  nor  tears  can  move  your  lips  to  speak, 
Nor  hearts  to  beat ;  but  if  your  spirits  turn 
With  tenderness  to  those  who  mourn  your  loss, 
Accept  this  tribute  from  a  woman's  hand, 
Of  truth  to  God,  her  native  land,  and  you ! 
6 


•  CATHERINE  W.  TOWLES. 

AMONG  the  writers  of  the  "  Southland  "  who  have  labored  in  the 
"  heat  of  the  day,"  never  ceasing  in  the  good  work  of  providing 
interesting,  instructive,  and  moral  literature  for  her  countrywomen, 
may  be  named  Miss  C.  W.  Barber;  for  by  her  familiar  maiden  name 
is  she  best  known  to  the  readers  of  Southern  periodical  literature. 

Miss  Barber  was  born  in  Charlemont,  a  romantic  little  town  in 
Northern  Massachusetts,  on  the  25th  day  of  October,  1823.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  a  farmer,  and  her  earliest  recollections  are  of  green 
pastures,  where  fed  herds  and  flocks ;  rich  meadows,  where  waved  the 
tall  grass  ready  for  the  mower's  scythe,  and  fields  of  golden  grain 
ripening  in  the  sunshine.  She  early  began  her  literary  career,  sending 
verses  to  the  country  newspapers  while  yet  a  mere  child.  These  verses 
were  favorably  received  by  the  reading  public,  and  were  frequently 
copied  into  other  journals.  Hon.  Whiting  Griswold,  now  of  Green 
field,  Mass.,  was  her  principal  teacher ;  he  was  at  the  time  a  student 
in  Amherst  College.  He  brought  her  books  to  read  from  the  college 
library,  and  encouraged  her  to  study  and  literary  effort. 

In  1846,  soon  after  the  death  of  her  father,  she  came  South  to  reside 
in  the  family  of  her  brother.  Her  literary  reputation  followed  her, 
and  contributions  were  solicited  of  her  by  Southern  journals. 

In  1849,  she  received  two  prizes,  one  for  the  best  tale,  and  one  for 
the  best  poem,  written  for  the  "Madison  Family  Visitor,"  a  literary 
and  family  journal  started  in  Morgan  County,  Geo.,  and  was  solicited 
to  take  charge  of  its  literary  department;  and  did  so,  and  continued 
editress  of  this  paper  for  three  years.  It  was  during  this  period  that 
she  wrote  a  series  of  tales  for  the  "Masonic  Signet  and  Journal,"  which 
were  so  well  received  by  the  fraternity  that  they  were  collected  into  a 
volume,  and  published  in  New  York  under  the  title  of  "  Tales  for  the 
Freemason's  Fireside."  Shortly  afterward  she  wrote  a  series  of  "Odd- 
Fellow  Tales,"  which  were  published  in  a  volume,  entitled  "The  Three 
Golden  Links." 

In  1861,  Miss  Barber  became  connected  with  the  "Southern  Lite 
rary  Companion,"  a  paper  published  by  I.  N.  Davis,  a  blind  man,  in 

694 


CATHEKINE    W.    TOWLES.  595 

the  town  of  Newnan,  Georgia.  To  this  journal  she  contributed  some 
elegantly  written  novelettes,  and  articles  on  subjects  "humorous, 
grave,  and  severe."  Her  connection  with  this  paper  continued  until 
the  close  of  the  war.  In  the  spring  of  1866,  she  became  editress  and 
proprietress  of  a  literary  paper  published  in  Newnan,  called  "  Miss 
Barber's  Weekly,"  which  was  continued  until  August  29th,  1867, 
when  Miss  C.  W.  Barber  became  the  wife  of  Hon.  John  C.  Towles,  of 
Lafayette,  Ala.  She  now  resides  on  her  husband's  plantation  near 
that  place. 

Although  of  Northern  birth,  Mrs.  Towles  is  Southern  by  acclima 
tion  and  long  residence,  and  she  considers  Alabama  her  home ;  for  to 
her  it  is  now  "  a  land  of  rest." 


MRS.  JULIA  SHELTON. 

("  Laura  Lorrimer.") 
"  GENIUS  —  native  talent." 

T  AURA  LORRIMER  possesses  "genius  of  a  rare  order,"  and 
J-J  several  years  ago  was  noted  as  one  of  the  most  promising  of  the 
young  writers  of  the  South.  In  December,  1855,  she  married  Mr.  J. 
A.  Shelton,  of  Bellefonte,  Alabama,  at  which  place  she  resides  at  the 
present  time,  having  two  children,  a  son  and  daughter. 

Julia  Finley  was  born  on  the  Cumberland  River,  Tennessee,  and  at 
an  early  age  commenced  "poetizing."  She  was  one  of  George  D. 
Prentice's  galaxy  of  poets  —  of  which  Amelia  Welby  was  probably 
the  best  known.  The  South,  and  indeed  the  whole  country,  owe  much 
to  this  gifted  and  noble  Kentuckian,  for  his  helping  hand  and  encour 
aging  words  to  young  aspirants  for  literary  fame. 

"  Laura  Lorrimer  "  was  a  contributor  to  the  various  journals  and 
magazines,  North  and  South — Godey's  "Lady's  Book,"  "Louisville 
Journal,"  and  "  Field  and  Fireside,"  among  others. 


THE  FEVER-SLEEP. 

A    PRIZE    POEH. 

There  was  a  Hecla  raging  in  my  soul, 

Of  wild  emotions  which  might  not  be  stilled. 

Through  its  dim  arcades  flashed  the  murky  light, 

In  fitful  corruscations,  and  each  niche 

Grew  all  irradiate.     On  the  year's  broad  breast 

Four  months  had  wreathed  their  coronals  and  died, 

For  it  was  May,  but  in  my  fevered  soul 

The  sweet  May  flowers  had  withered,  and  upon 

Its  myrtle  garland  slept  a  mildew  blight. 

One  year  ago  that  very  May,  I  bent, 

In  love  and  faith,  beneath  the  deep-blue  heaven, 


696 


JULIA    SHELTON.  597 

And  as  the  stars  went  floating  up  its  arch, 

My  soul  was  floating  on  the  passionate  breath 

Of  new,  strange  music  to  a  fairy  land. 

Life  then  was  golden-tinted :  I  had  not 

One  unbelieving  thought ;  I  could  not  link 

The  purple  glory  of  my  dreams  in  one ; 

They  wavered,  flashed,  and  paled  like  sunset  gleams, 

Through  the  proud  arches  and  pilastered  domes 

Of  Southern  climes.    Oh !  I  had  never  known 

Aught  half  so  blissful,  and  I  lived  an  age 

In  every  breath  which  chronicled  that  hour 

Of  my  existence.     Immortality 

Seemed  charactered  upon  it,  and  I  heard 

The  low,  sweet  chiming  of  a  thousand  streams, 

Which  swept  their  crystal  through  the  amaranth  bowers 

Of  Aiden,  and  the  mystic  language  grew 

Articulate.  *  I  seemed  to  hear  them  say 

That  love  like  this  could  never  die ;  that  through 

The  march  of  centuries  to  Eternity, 

Its  hymn  of  adoration  still  would  rise 

And  tremble  on  the  air.    I  have  had  dreams 

Which  crowned  my  spirit  as  I  walked  amid 

The  shadowy  vale  of  visions,  with  a  band 

Of  all  unearthly  radiance,  but,  oh !  none 

So  bright  as  those  which  clustered  round  me  on 

That  sweet  May  midnight,  when  my  eyelids  drooped, 

Dank  with  the  dews  of  slumber  on  my  cheek, 

And  the  soft  echo  of  love's  thrilling  words 

Still  lingering  around  me.     How  my  soul 

Grew  gently  luminous  with  gleaming  wings, 

As  the  night-sky  with  stars ! 

May  came  again ; 

But  my  hot  brow  seemed  banded  with  a  chain 
Of  living  fire.    My  senses  all  were  bound 
In  the  dread  fetters  of  a  fever-sleep. 
I  struggled  with  my  thraldom,  and  my  thoughts 
Wandered  within  a  narrow,  darkened  cell  — 
Pale,  wingless  phantoms,  striving  to  unlock 
The  gates  of  destiny.     Then  strange,  wild  birds, 
With  eyes  of  fire  and  wings  of  lurid  flame, 
Perched  close  beside  me,  and,  from  time  to  time, 
Sank  deep  their  vulture  beaks  into  my  heart. 
I  knew  they  were  my  incarnated  passions,  which 
The  fever-demon  mockingly  had  called 


598  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Into  a  fierce  existence.    Closer  still 

They  flocked  around  me,  and  I  was  upborne 

Upon  their  rushing  pinions  through  the  stars, 

On,  on  to  "  outer  darkness."    There  are  orbs, 

Which  ages  since  flashed  down  a  golden  ray, 

Whose  earthward  journey  yet  is  scarce  begun, 

And  we  had  passed  the  farthest;  now  we  stood 

At  the  closed  gates  of  dread,  eternal  Night. 

" Room"  shrieked,  half  humanly,  each  vulture  throat, 

"  Room  for  our  burden"    Fetterless,  the  winds 

Eoamed  the  abyss,  and  answered,  "  There  is  none  t " 

Time  had  not  winged  another  moment  ere 

Light  flashed  upon  my  eyelids.     On  the  earth 

How  one  short  moment  oft  has  crowned  my  soul 

With  years  of  rapture,  and  I  have  grown  old, 

Even  in  the  folding  of  one  warm  caress ! 

Another  moment,  and  a  star-throned  isle 

Gleamed  in  the  blue  beneath  us.    "  We  must  rest," 

Moaned  my  fierce  carriers ;  "  room  is  for  us  here, 

In  this  fair  planet ;  here  our  weary  wings 

Shall  leave  their  burden."    Wooingly  the  waves, 

From  their  blue,  throbbing  bosoms,  whispered  "  Come." 

It  was  a  lovely  world :  its  temples  lay 

Like  heavy  snow-rifts,  in  the  gentle  light 

Of  seven  bright  moons.     It  was  a  paradise, 

Which  I  had  never  imaged,  even  amid 

My  wildest  visions.     Opiate  incense  rose 

From  nameless  flower-buds,  like  the  heavy  mists 

From  the  damp  earth,  and  every  nerve  grew  faint 

With  dreamy  languor.     I  was  all  alone, 

That  star-world's  sovereign.     It  had  never  yet 

Felt  the  soft  stirring  of  an  angel-plume 

In  its  calm  air.     The  chiming  of  the  wave, 

The  wind's  low  footstep,  and  the  wild  bird's  song, 

Were  all  its  music.     But  my  heart-strings  still 

Were  linked  to  earth,  and  to  earth's  passion-dreams. 

One  cloud  may  veil  the  "day-god's"  fiery  steeds, 
Even  in  the  zenith  of  their  blue-arched  path ; 
And  now  earth-shadows  severed  from  my  soul 
The  soft,  gold  arms  of  the  caressing  light. 
Wiser  than  I  have  tangled  up  their  prayers 
In  the  dark  tresses  of  a  haughty  head, 


JULIA    S  HELTON.  599 

And  sung  a  hymn  to  clay  instead  of  God  ; 
And  I  —  am  but  a  mortal ;  so  I  had 
An  idol  with  me,  e'en  among  the  stars, 
A  name  to  which  my  soul  forever  sang 
As  to  a  deity,  and  whispered  words 
Of  half-unearthly  worship. 

Hours  or  months, 

It  might  have  been,  grew  gray  and  died,  but  yet 
There  came  no  day.     My  spirit  could  not  count 
Time's  heavy  throbbings,  but  the  very  air 
Seemed  faint  and  tremulous  with  an  unseen 
And  mighty  presence.     Four  bright  pinions  came 
Floating  above  me,  and  then  wavered  down, 
Like  the  gold  leaves  of  autumn,  by  my  side. 
Beautiful  angels  were  they,  Love  and  Faith, 
But  Love  stood  nearest,  bending  o'er  my  heart, 
As  if  to  count  its  throbbings.     God  had  sent 
Visible  angels,  thus  to  symbol  forth 
The  thoughts  invisible  which  filled  my  soul. 
Oh,  in  the  heavens,  Israfel's  sweet  lute 
Ne'er  to  his  fingers  thrilled  as  did  my  heart 
To  the  soft  music  of  their  murmured  words  — 
That  angel  lullaby !    My  lids  drooped  down, 
Charmed  with  its  opiate.     To  the  land  of  dreams, 
I  bore  the  vague,  sweet  echoes  of  the  song : 

Slumbers  be  thine, 

Gentle  and  deep ; 
Queen  of  the  star-isle, 

Eest  in  our  keep ! 

Chased  by  our  pinions, 

Trouble  shall  fly, 
Ever  around  thee 

Eise  Love's  lullaby. 

Faith  ever  near  thee 

Guardian  shall  stand, 
Love  round  thy  forehead 

Twine  her  bright  band. 

The  music  died  in  wailings.     O'er  the  sky 
Swept  a  dark  tempest,  and  my  star-isle  shook 
To  its  foundations ;  fiery  lavas  rolled 
In  desolating  fury  down  the  slopes 


600  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

So  grand  with  beauty,  and  the  temples  fell 

In  shapeless  masses  on  the  trembling  earth. 

My  angel  guards  had  fled ;  beside  me  stood 

A  demon  presence,  giant-like  and  stern. 

Fearfully  beautiful  twined  the  iris  crown 

In  the  black  billowy  locks  which  swept  away 

From  the  lost  angelhood  of  his  broad  brow  — 

Fit  rival  for  the  passions  glowing  fierce 

And  tiger-like  in  the  wild  orbs  beneath. 

Silent  in  demon  majesty  he  stood, 

But  ever  and  anon  the  heavy  wings 

Shook  almost  to  unfolding,  and  the  mists 

Dropped  from  them,  leadenly,  upon  my  brow. 

All,  all  was  silence,  save  the  wild  heart-throbs 

Which  strove  to  burst  their  prison ;  for  I  shrank 

In  voiceless  terror  from  the  bitter  smile 

Which  curved  the  haughty  lips,  and  from  the  stern 

And  blasting  gaze  of  those  dark,  fiery  eyes. 

I  rose  and  strove  to  fly ;  but  demon  wings 

Flapped  heavily  around  me,  and  a  voice 

Which  filled  the  universe  hissed  in  my  ear 

The  awful  words :  "  Down !  down  !  to  meet  thy  doom. 

Thou  hast  lost  heaven  for  earth,  and  staked  thy  soul 

Against  a  mortal's  love.     For  one  whose  brow 

Is  crowned  with  amaranth,  thou  hast  flung  down 

The  gauntlet  to  Omnipotence.    Depart ! " 

I  was  a  wanderer.    A  mark  was  set, 

Like  Cain's,  upon  my  forehead ;  and  alone, 

Amidst  the  mighty  forests  of  the  West, 

I  writhed  my  way.     Like  sleeping  Titans  lay 

The  mountain  ranges  in  the  dim  gray  light 

Which  heralded  the  dawn.     Before  me  rolled 

The  ocean,  with  its  hungry  waves  astir, 

Leaping  in  eager  bounds  upon  the  strand, 

Like  wild  beasts  on  their  prey. 

"Alas,"  I  cried, 

"Alas  for  thee!  my  own  sweet  spirit-love! 
Thou  art  not  now  beside  me ;  but  thy  deep 
And  passionate  words  are  floating  round  my  heart 
Like  angels  in  the  darkness,  and  again 
I  drink  a  haunting  music  from  their  swell ; 
Their  memory  comes  like  echoes  from  the  past, 


JULIA    SHELTON.  601 

The  blessed  past.     Will  no  one  ope  the  gates, 
And  lead  me  backward  to  that  glorious  state, 
And  to  the  idol  of  my  girlhood  dreams 
And  their  wild  fervor  ?  " 

Then  a  genius  came, 

And  he  unlocked  the  caverns  of  the  deep  ; 
Then  bore  me  downward  to  the  blue-sea  halls, 
And  midst  those  coral  grottos  cooled  my  hands 
In  crystal  vases.    There  the  opal  shone 
With  mystic  radiance,  and  the  emerald  wreathed 
The  pale,  dead  brows,  which  gleamed  up  white  and  strange 
Amid  the  sea-weed.     Oh !  they  slept  with  pearls 
And  all  things  beautiful,  and  the  great  waves 
Forever  pealed  a  requiem  o'er  them,  and 
Thus  shall  they  sleep  until  time's  dying  throbs 
Shall  shake  the  universe. 

"  Go  seek  thy  love," 

Whispered  the  spirit,  and  a  mocking  smile 
Bent  his  red  lip ;  "  perchance  he  sleepeth  here 
In  Neptune's  regal  palace." 

One  by  one 

I  numbered  o'er  the  dead,  and  wandered  on 
For  weary  miles.     I  lifted  raven  curia 

From  many  a  brow,  and  bent  o'er  many  a  lip ; 

But  yet  saw  none  which  bore  the  spell  of  his 

For  whom  I  sought  with  hopeless,  patient  love. 

Soft  through  the  waters,  gleaming  like  a  star, 

Flashed  a  clear  ray.     "  Sweet  love !  "  I  murmured  then, 

"  Be  this  the  guide  to  lead  my  steps  to  him." 

Fresh  glories  gleamed  around  me.    Eainbow-hued 

And  crimson  sea-flowers  climbed  a  coral  arch, 

And  draped  a  regal  couch ;  and  there  he  lay, 

Not  pale  and  dead,  but  warm  and  rich  with  life. 

Age  yet  had  pressed  but  lightly  on  the  brow 

So  glorious  in  its  beauty,  and  those  curls 

Of  raven  darkness  swept  its  marble  breadth 

In  shadowy  magnificence.    The  eyes 

Had  learned  not  coldness  from  the  frozen  years 

Which  rolled  their  heights  between  us ;  the  full  lips 

Were  curving  their  rich  crimson  in  a  smile, 

And  angel  pinions  drooped  with  silvery  sheen 

From  the  broad  shoulders.     Like  a  peal  of  bells, 

He  syllabled  my  name.     I  never  thought 

If  he  had  wings  on  earth,  or  was  so  fair, 


602  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

But  still  I  nestled  in  his  warm  embrace ; 

And  then  he  said,  one  cabalistic  word 

From  him  would  ope  those  portals  as  the  sun 

Unbars  the  gates  of  day.     With  trumpet-voice 

He  breathed  the  mystic  spell.    A  thousand  flowers 

Seemed  blending  all  their  blossoms  into  one ; 

A  thousand  music-echoes  seemed  to  sweep 

Into  infinitude,  and  dazzling  rings 

Of  golden  light,  in  widening  circles,  flashed 

Athwart  my  vision,  and  my  fever-dreams 

Were  torn  apart,  as  by  a  wizard  spell. 

Yet  one  remained  —  the  sweetest  one  —  to  be 

A  sweet  reality.    A  proud  face  bent 

O'er  my  pale  brow,  and  wooing,  loving  words 

Charmed  my  weak  senses.     All  athirst,  I  drank 

The  God-sent  nectar,  and  my  pulses  beat 

With  healthful  throbbings.     Life  to  me  once  more 

Was  beautiful,  and  the  great  boundary-line  • 

Which  spanned  my  Eden  was  Eternity. 


THE  LEPER'S  CHILD. 

Daughter  of  Judah's  race,  thine  eye  is  bright, 
Thy  red  lip's  beautiful  and  scornful  curl 

Regnant  with  pride;  thy  heart  is  free  and  light 
In  its  first  blooming.     Oh,  most  radiant  girl ! 

Alas!  that  bitterness  and  gloom  must  now 

Shadow  the  whiteness  of  thy  pure  young  brow ! 

No  more  amid  those  purple-gleaming  bowers, 
Draped  with  the  Orient's  many-tinted  dyes, 

Rich  with  the  perfume  of  a  thousand  flowers, 
Will,  in  calm  slumber,  droop  thy  dreamy  eyes. 

Listen,  O  Zara !  ere  my  brain  grows  wild  : 

A  curse  is  on  thee — thou'rt  the  leper's  child  I 

My  own  sweet  one,  Gehazi's  awful  sin 
Is  clinging  to  thee;  ere  one  fleeting  year,' 

Its  loathsome  crust  will  whiten  o'er  thy  skin; 
Save  to  me  only,  thou  wilt  be  a  fear, 

A  form  of  dread  to  every  passer  by: 

There  now  is  nothing  for  thee  but  to  die. 

Zara,  sweet  June  was  in  her  depths  of  bloom 
On  thy  first  birthday,  ere  I  knew  that  he, 


JULIA    SHE  L,  TON.  603 

Round  whom  my  love  was  circling  like  perfume, 

Bore  the  dread  curse  which  soon  will  rest  on  thee, 
While  I,  calm,  careless,  like  a  dew-bent  flower, 
Slept,  all  unconscious  of  this  horrid  hour. 

A  whirlwind  swept  my  dreams.     His  crimson  lips 
Were  wooing  mine  with  love's  sweet  honey-dew, 

And  his  proud  eyes  lay  half  in  sad  eclipse, 

Beneath  the  lids  which  veiled  their  midnight  hue. 

The  air  was  heavy  with  his  grief;   he  said, 

"  Young,  bright,  and  sinless,  better  were  she  dead : 

Dead  ere  — "     Oh!  let  me  veil  the  words  which  came, 

To  coil  like  fiery  adders  in  my  breast, 
And  from  his  parched  lips  burst  like  gusts  of  flame. 

Zara,  forgive  him.  —  he  is  now  at  rest; 
But  while  life's  pulses  in  thy  bosom  glow, 
Oh !  never  curse  another  with  thy  woe  — 

As  I  have  thee.    Cast  love's  sweet  poison  by : 

It  was  distilled  for  other  lips  than  thine  ; 
And,  had  I  known  how  soon  its  bliss  would  fly, 

Its  venom  never  would  have  moistened  mine. 
Then,  my  soul's  idol,  veil  thy  pure  young  face, 
And  die  —  the  last  of  an  accursed  race. 


"AS  ARTLESS  AS  A  CHILD." 

"  As  artless  as  a  child  ?  "    The  downward  bending 

Of  her  pale  lips  returns  a  bitter  "  no ; " 
It  is  no  girlish  impulse  which  is  sending 

From  heart  to  cheek  that  deep  and  fitful  glow. 
It  is  that  she  has  learned  a  truer  linking 

For  words  and  thoughts  than  that  she  studied  o'er, 
So  long  ago,  when  utterance  and  thinking 

Both  the  same  meaning  to  her  spirit  bore. 
Around  her  brow  there  rests  a  golden  glory, 

Like  the  faint  shadow  of  an  angel's  crown, 
Where  ringlets  bright  as  Hope's  bewildering  story, 

Float,  like  the  mists  of  sunset,  softly  down. 
Love  seems  with  folded  pinions  sweetly  dreaming, 

Nursed  in  the  shadows  of  her  violet  eyes  ; 


004  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

And  yet,  alas  !  alas !  it  is  but  seeming, 
'T  is  Falsehood  wears  the  boy-god's  radiant  guise. 

"  As  artless  as  a  child  f  "    That  low,  rich  laughter 

Rings  out  above  her  heart's  wild  wail  of  pain, 
And  nothing  earthly  now  can  ever  waft  her 

The  peaceful  dreams  of  childish  hours  again. 
Like  the  rose-scented,  seaward- roving  breezes 

Which  hover  round  the  coast  of  Malabar, 
Her  tone's  soft  witchery  every  spirit  seizes, 

And  leads  it  captive,  in  love's  chains,  afar. 
Yet  (cold  Iconoclast)  one  picture  only 

Of  those  in  childhood  crowned  with  rainbow  light 
Hangs  in  her  bosom,  desolate  and  lonely, 

A  star  of  beauty  'mid  the  gloom  of  night. 
And  when  youth's  rose-tint  from  her  cheek  has  faded ; 

When  age's  silver  glory  crowns  her  brow ; 
When  sorrow's  darkest  mists  her  soul  have  shaded, 

That  one  dear  picture  will  be  bright  as  now. 

"As  artless  as  a  child?  "     Alas  !  there  lingers 

Within  her  bosom  now  but  one  fresh  flower  ; 
'T  was  planted  by  the  blind  god's  fairy  fingers, 

One  gentle  autumn  at  the  twilight  hour. 
The  chill  December  watched  its  glorious  blooming, 

And  May's  white-clouded,  blue,  caressing  skies 
Still  kept  the  vigil,  and  at  spring's  entombing 

Gave  for  a  guardian  June's  voluptuous  eyes. 
She  whispers  love-words  to  it  when  the  fringes 

Which  shade  her  eyes  have  curtained  them  to  dreams, 
And  kisses  it  when  bright-haired  morning  tinges 

With  golden  shadows  crystal-footed  streams. 
Ah  !  there  are  flowers  whose  laggard  petals  never 

Unfold,  save  o'er  a  century's  dying  hour ; 
But  none  like  this,  whose  radiance  lasts  forever : 

Eternity  keeps  watch  above  this  flower. 


JEWELS  FOE  LETHE. 

Jewels  for  Lethe !    Genii,  bring  the  key  — 
The  heart 's  the  casket  where  those  jewels  be. 
The  bright-winged  angel,  which,  in  purple  state, 
Sat,  with  furled  pinions,  singing  at  the  gate, 


JULIA    SHELTON.  605 

Has  drawn  the  bolts,  and  sought  a  prouder  throne, 
Leaving  the  rich  insignia  there  alone  — 
The  heart's  crown-jewels.    Fling  them  side  by  side 
In  the  calm  crystal  of  the  Lethean  tide. 

Jewels  for  Lethe !     Bring  the  brightest  first, 
(Love's  ruby  coronet;)  in  times  of  erst 
It  was  the  fitting  crown  for  beauty's  brow, 
An  emblem  meet  for  knighthood's  holiest  vow 
And  fearless  worship.     Now,  oh !  who  may  dare 
Unscathed  its  wreath  of  flashing  light  to  wear  ? 
Where  can  it  find  a  softer,  calmer  grave  ? 
Oh !  cast  it  unpolluted  in  the  wave ! 

Jewels  for  Lethe !    Ha !  a  laurel-wreath 

Carved  out  from  emeralds ;  but  close  beneath 

Lie  jagged  thorns ;  the  heavy  golden  clasp 

Is  a  coiled  serpent,  holding  in  its  grasp 

A  wounded  dove.    Poor  bird !  how  like  to  thine 

Their  fate  who  round  their  fair  young  temples  twine 

That  wizard !     Be  it  buried  deep, 

Where,  charmed  to  silence,  Lethe's  waters  sleep. 

Jewels  for  Lethe !    Jewels  from  the  heart, 
Why,  when  its  regal  visions  all  depart, 
Should  the  regalia  linger  ?    Well  it  were 
They  ne'er  had  burned  in  princely  splendor  there. 
Give  the  dark  waters  yet  another  gem, 
Brightest  but  one  in  life's  star-diadem : 
When  Love  and  Glory  sleep  beneath  the  tide. 
Faith  too  should  veil  its  radiance  by  their  side ! 

Jewels  for  Lethe !    Ah  I  no  more  there  be ; 

Upon  the  empty  casket  turn  the  key ; 

And  if  its  guardian  angels  e'er  come  down, 

They  must  bring  jewels  for  another  crown, 

And  in  Elysium  forge  another  key ; 

This,  Lethe,  is  an  offering  unto  thee. 

Shroud  Love,  and  Faith,  and  Fame  beneath  thy  flow : 

What  are  they  all  but  synonyms  for  Woe  f 


MISSISSIPPI, 


607 


SALLIE  ADA  VANCE. 


ALLIE  ADA  KEEDY  was  born  in  Northern  Alabama. 
Captain  James  Reedy,  her  father,  removed  to  Lexington, 
Mississippi,  during  her  infancy. 

Miss  Reedy  was  early  inclined  to  study ;  was  passionately 
fond  of  reading,  and  had  the  advantage  of  careful  and  judicious  culture. 

While  a  child  in  years,  she  began  to  write  in  verse,  and  her  early 
poems  exhibit  the  same  thoughtful  tone,  the  same  impassioned  ten 
derness  which  can  be  seen,  ripened  and  refined,  in  her  later  writings. 

In  1860,  her  poems,  which  had  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  the 
various  periodicals  of  the  South,  were  collected  for  publication  in  book- 
form.  The  "  war  "  caused  the  idea  to  be  abandoned  for  more  auspi 
cious  times. 

In  1865,  about  the  close  of  the  war,  Miss  Reedy  entered  upon  a  new 
phase  of  womanhood  :  she  was  married  to  Mr.  Vance,  and  resides  in 
Lexiitgton,  the  home  of  her  childhood. 

The  character  of  Mrs.  Vance's  poetry  is  subjective  —  her  thoughts 
most  frequently  introverted — finding  their  field  of  research  in  the  in 
finitely  varied  human  heart.  Yet  she  feels  the  charm  of  nature  with 
all  a  poet's  sensitive  organization ;  and  she  describes  the  beauty  of 
earth,  sky,  and  ocean  with  the  vivid  truthfulness  of  an  appreciative 
as  well  as  imaginative  mind.  Her  melody  of  versification  is  remark 
able.  Her  thoughts  ripple  away  into  rhyme  so  easily  that  we  per 
ceive  it  to  be  their  natural  vehicle.  Her  words  are  always  musical 
and  well  chosen. 

But  there  are  depths  in  her  nature  which  have  not  been  stirred  : 
there  are  chords  which  have  not  been  sounded.  When  these  have  been 
awakened  by  the  hand  of  a  larger  experience,  we  shall  see  the  poetry 
of  Mrs.  Vance  take  a  wider  range  —  a  deeper  and  more  earnest  tone. 

fShe  has  recently  finished  a  poem,  longer  than  any  she  ever  published, 
which  is  considered  by  judges  to  be  the  best  she  has  ever  written. 
7  609 


G10  SOUTHLAND    WKITEKS. 

Mrs.  Vance  lost  her  husband  in  December,  1868. 
"  Beautiful  as  a  poet's  dream  "  is  an  old  saying  —  but   hero  is   a 
poet's  dream  that  is  more  than  beautiful : 


THE  TWO  ANGELS. 

A  boy  at  midnight  sat  alone, 

And  quick  throbs  o'er  his  being  stole, 
Like  those  to  graver  manhood  known 

When  high  resolves  are  in  the  soul. 
Two  winged  angels  softly  leave 

The  brightest  star  in  all  the  sky, 
And  one  is  fair  as  sinless  Eve  — 

The  other  has  the  serpent's  eye. 

Now  to  the  boy  they  softly  glide, 

And  fold  their  starry  wings  unseen, 
Then  rest  them,  one  on  either  side, 

And  watch  him  as  he  sits  between. 
Each  angel  holds  within  her  hand 

A  spotless  scroll  of  purest  white, 
For  God  has  sent  them  with  command 

To  write  the  boy's  resolves  that  night. 

"I  will  be  great!  "  his  hot  cheek  burned  — 

"That  men  shall  shout  in  ecstasy, 
When  first  their  wondering  souls  have  learned 

How  like  the  gods  a  man  may  be." 
The  angel  on  the  left  hand  smiled, 

And  wrote  it  with  suspended  breath ; 
She  knew  ambition  oft  beguiled 

To  sin  and  sacrifice  and  death. 

"I  shall  have  foes,  as  greatness  hath, 

Whate'er  may  be  its  brilliant  sphere; 
But  I  will  sweep  them  from  my  path, 

Or  maim  their  puny  souls  Avith  fear." 
The  angel  on  the  left  hand  caught 

And  wrote  the  proud  boast  with  a  sneer; 
The  angel  on  the  right  had  nought 

Upon  her  page  but  one  bright  tear. 

"  Love,  still  the  poet's  chosen  theme, 
Shall  be  a  thing  abjured  by  me; 


SALLIE    ADA    VANCE.  611 

« 

And  yet  —  my  childhood's  happiest  dream 

Came  to  me  on  my  mother's  knee. 
My  mother's  knee !     Why  what  is  this 

That  on  my  lips  is  trembling  now  ? 
A  prayer?     I  almost  feel  the  kiss 

Her  dying  lips  left  on  my  brow. 

"She'd  rather  hear  her  name  and  mine 

In  some  poor  creature's  night-prayer  told, 
Than  have  the  proud  world  rear  a  shrine 

And  write  it  there  in  burning  gold." 
The  angel  on  the  left  awhile 

Seemed  half  in  doubt  and  half  in  rage; 
The  other  smiled  a  warm,  bright  smile 

That  dried  the  tear  upon  her  page. 

"I  will  be  brave,  and  ask  each  heart 

That  faints  in  life  to  lean  on  mine, 
And  strive  to  do  that  better  part 

That  makes  a  mortal  feel  divine  ; 
And,  if  my  faults  should  win  a  foe 

Relentless  through  all  coming  time, 
I'll  pity  you  who  may  not  know 

Compassion  makes  this  life  sublime." 

The  boy  looked  upward  to  the  sky ; 

But  ere  his  vow  was  halfway  done, 
And  ere  the  light  passed  from  his  eye, 

The  angel  on  the  left  had  flown : 
The  angel  on  the  right  was  there, 

And  for  one  joyful  moment  stood, 
Then  waved  her  bright  wings  on  the  air, 

And  bore  her  message  back  to  God. 

Very  seldom,  in  all  the  range  of  poetry,  do  we  find  anything  so 
perfect  in  all  respects  as  the  following  gem.  It  is  unexceptionable  in 
every  respect  —  a  lesson  for  life,  to  be  conned  every  day  by  those  who 
would  worship  the  good,  the  beautiful,  and  the  true : 

GUAED  THINE  ACTION. 

When  you  meet  with  one  suspected 

Of  some  secret  deed  of  shame, 
And  for  this  by  all  rejected 

As  a  thing  of  evil  fame  — 


612  SOUTHLAND     WRITERS. 

Guard  thine  every  look  and  action : 
Speak  no  heartless  word  of  blame ; 

For  the  slanderer's  vile  detraction 
Yet  may  spoil  thy  goodly  name. 

When  you  meet  a  brow  that's  awing 

With  its  wrinkled  lines  of  gloom, 
And  a  haughty  step  that's  drawing 

To  a  solitary  tomb  — 
Guard  thine  action :  some  great  sorrow 

Made  that  man  a  spectre  grim; 
And  the  sunset  of  to-morrow 

May  have  left  thee  like  to  him. 

When  you  meet  with  one  pursuing 

Paths  the  lost  have  entered  in, 
Working  out  his  own  undoing 

With  his  recklessness  and  sin  — 
Think,  if  placed  in  his  condition, 

Would  a  kind  word  be  in  vain? 
Or  a  look  of  cold  suspicion 

Win  thee  back  to  truth  again? 

There  are  spots  that  bear  no  flowers  — 

Not  because  the  spil  is  bad ; 
But  that  summer's  gentle  showers 

Never  made  their  bosoms  glad : 
Better  have  an  act  that 's  kindly 

Treated  sometimes  with  disdain, 
Than,  by  judging  others  blindly, 

Doom  the  innocent  to  pain. 


STRAUSS'   FIRST  LOVE. 

At  eve  they  summoned  the  bridal  crowd 

To  a  lofty- pillared  dome, 
Where  the  daughter  fair  of  a  lineage  proud 

Went  forth  from  her  childhood's  home; 
And  white  plumes  waved  in  the  diamond  light 

That  shone  over  princely  brows, 
While  the  eye  of  beauty  grew  softly  bright 

As  it  read  love's  hidden  vows. 


SALLIE    ADA    VANCE.  613 

Rich  tapestry  trembled  upon  the  breeze, 

And  the  tall  wax  tapers  shone, 
And  fragrance,  swept  from  the  Southern  seas, 

Stole  in  with  the  lute's  low  tone. 
It  seemed  not  pleasure  that  wildly  thrilled 

The  cadence  of  gushing  song, 
But  bliss  so  deep  that  its  depth  had  stilled 

The  pulse  of  that  mighty  throng. 

And  yet  there  was  one  dark,  mournful  eye, 

Whose  searching  and  soul-lit  glance 
Saw  but  one  fair  form  as  it  floated  by 

In  the  whirl  of  the  breathless  dance. 
By  a  column  tall  he  leaned  apart, 

With  a  brow  so  deadly  pale 
That  one  might  read  of  his  broken  heart 

As  though  't  were  a  written  tale. 

He  loved  with  the  love  of  a  noble  soul  — 

'T  was  scorned  by  that  haughty  bride ; 
And  the  fountain,  checked,  all  coldly  stole 

O'er  his  heart  with  a  frozen  tide. 
She  had  spurned  the  truth  of  the  minstrel's  vow, 

And  given  her  hand  to  one 
Who  placed  a  crown  on  her  fair,  young  brow  — 

For  thus  are  the  soulless  won. 

But  hark!  there  burst  on  the  deep'ning  night 

A  murmur  of  grief  profound, 
And  the  dancers  paused  in  their  giddy  flight 

To  catch  the  unearthly  sound. 
The  minstrel  poured  all  his  breaking  heart 

In  melody's  wailing  strain, 
And  the  bride  grew  pale  at  the  sudden  start 

And  the  swollen  tensioned  vein. 

Still  higher  and  deeper  the  music  swells, 

Till  the  marble  pillars  ring; 
As  the  song  of  the  dying  swan  excels 

The  lay  of  all  birds  that  sing. 
Then  a  pallor  over  the  bride's  cheek  crept, 

And  her  brow  grew  coldly  white 
As  the  bridal  veil  that  around  her  swept 

Like  a  gossamer  cloud  of  light. 


614  SOUTHLAND    WRITER  8. 

Her  ducal  robe  wore  a  crimson  stain, 

('T  was  the  heart's  red  blood,  I  wot ;) 
Then  pealed  still  higher  the  music-strain ; 

Yet  the  dead  bride  heard  it  not! 
The  hall  is  deserted  —  the  revellers  fled  — 

Save  he  of  the  mournful  eye : 
Oh !  who  dare  tell,  when  the  loved  lay  dead, 

Of  his  soul's  deep  agony  ? 


THE  SISTERS. 

Those  were  not  mortals  standing  there 

With  eyes  bent  on  a  sleeping  child, 
Who,  all  unmindful  of  their  care, 

Saw  dreams  at  which  his  red  lips  smiled. 
And  one  was  blue-eyed,  with  a  face 

Round  which  the  brown  hair  closely  curled 
With  such  a  soft,  bewitching  grace, 

It  might  have  maddened  half  the  world. 

The  other's  meek  eyes,  raised  above, 

Seemed  reading  trouble  for  to-morrow : 
The  brown-haired,  blue- eyed  one  was  Love  ; 

The  other  was  her  sister,  Sorrow. 
And  Love's  bright  wings  flashed -here  and  there 

You  looked  to  see  her  float  away ; 
But  Sorrow's   drooped  with  silent  care, 

As  though  prepared  for  longer  stay. 

"  Now,  sister,  give  me  this  fair  boy," 
The  blue-eyed  angel  gently  said  ; 
"  A  bosom  soft  and  warm  with  joy 
Should  only  pillow  such  a  head. 
You've  followed  me  where'er  I  roam, 

You  've  clung  to  me  through  many  years, 
And  when  I  touch  a  heart,  you  come 
And  blot  the  record  with  your  tears." 

The  meek-eyed  angel  floated  near, 
And  took  the  soft  hand  of  her  sister, 

And  on  her  cheek  there  was  a  tear, 
That  trembled  as  she  gently  kissed  her. 


SALLIEADAVANCE.  615 

"Oh,  Love.!   thou  dost  remember  well, 

When  Eve  and  Adam  were  too  wise, 
And,  weeping  forth  a  sad  farewell, 
We  went  with  them  from  Paradise. 

"They  wondered  at  the  storm  above, 

And  what  the  flowers  would  do  without  them ; 
I  think  they  would  have  died,  sweet  Love, 

But  that  your  arms  were  twined  about  them. 
I  loved  the  stars  and  soft,  blue  skies, 

And  winds  that  sung  to  us  at  even, 
And  made  our  lovely  Paradise 

Almost  as  beautiful  as  heaven. 

"  And  so  I  wept,  and  prayed  that  they 

Might  go   from  my  dark  presence  free, 
While  I,  the  meek-eyed  one,  would  stray, 

And  weary  Heaven  with  prayers  for  thee. 
The  guarding  angel  shook  his  head, 

And  sadly  pointed  up  above, 
And  said:   'Alas!   it  is  decreed 

You  part  not  with  your  sister,  Love. 

" '  She  was  the  fairest  from  her  birth ; 

But,  pale-faced  Sorrow !   thou  art  wise  ; 
While  Love  would  make  their  heaven  on  earth, 

Thou  'It  mind  them  of  lost  Paradise.' 
I  could  not  leave  thee  then,  and  now  — " 

But  Love's  bright  arms  were  round  her  thrown, 
And  that  one  kiss  on  Sorrow's  brow 

Had  left  a  brightness  like  her  own. 

"  Dear  sister,  this  fair  boy  shall  be 

A  pilgrim  at  thy  radiant  shrine; 
But  every  time  he  bends  his  knee, 

Half  of  the  offering  shall  be  thine." 
The  boy  awoke  almost  in  tears, 

So  strange  and  sad  the  vision  seemed : 
Perchance  he  knew,  in  after-years, 

He  had  not  only  slept  and  dreamed. 


MKS.  MARY  STANFORD. 

"Ah,  the  most  loved  are  they  of  whom  Fame  speaks  not  with  her  clarion  voice." 

A  LTHOUGH  few  of  Mrs.  Stanford's  productigns  have  reached  the 
~L\-  public  eye,  her  genius  has  long  been  acknowledged  and  admired 
by  a  large  circle  of  friends.  Her  poetic  faculty  was  a  gift  of  nature, 
which  received  culture  in  her  early  education  in  the  nunnery,  near 
P>a  rds  town,  Kentucky.  Under  the  oaks  and  magnolias  of  Claiborne 
County,  Mississippi,  she  was  born,  and  her  maiden  name  of  Mary 
Patterson  will  thrill  the  hearts  and  memories  of  many  old  associates 
and  contemporaries.  Her  girlhood  was  passed  amid  scenes  of  gayety 
and  pleasure;  her  ready  wit,  vivacity,  and  poetic  taste,  together  with 
a  graceful,  petite  physique,  making  her  a  charming  companion  and 
ornament  to  society.  Her  parents  died  when  she  was  very  young, 
leaving  her  two  brothers  and  herself,  and  their  estate,  to  the  care  of 
a  relative. 

Mrs.  Stanford  was  twice  married  and  widowed.  An  only  son  \va* 
the  fruit  of  her  first  marriage;  and  in  that  son  she  "lived,  moved,  and 
had  her  being."  "  The  ocean  to  the  river  of  her  thoughts,"  he  grew 
to  be  an  idol,  worshipped  with  a  devotion  few  mothers  have  given 
their  offspring.  He  was  her  inspiration,  the  polar  star  of  her  life. 

Freely  were  her  private  interests  sacrificed  in  raising  and  equipping 
a  battery,  of  which  her  son  was  first  lieutenant,  and  subsequently 
captain  ;  and  no  more  manly,  noble,  and  splendid  talent  was  given  the 
cause  of  the  South,  than  when  FERDINAND  CLAIBORNE  enlisted,  and 
bravely  fought  and  fell,  a  martyr  to  that  cause,  leaving  in  the  mem 
ory  of  his  mother  and  countrymen  a  monument  of  honor  and  chiv 
alry  more  bright  and  enduring  than  the  marble  erected  by  his  com 
rades  on  the  spot  where  he  fell.  And  this  little  tablet,  pure  and 
white  and  glistening,  embowered  in  roses,  and  embalmed  by  a  mother's 
daily  kisses  and  tears,  tolls  to  the  lingerer  in  the  quiet  little  ceme 
tery  of  Port  Gibson  the  same  history  it  told  at  the  fortifications  of 
Vicksburg,  where,  like  a  sentinel  at  his  post,  it  guarded  the  lonely 
mound  where  a  martyred  hero  slept. 

616 


MARY    STANFORD.  617 

Mrs.  Stanford  was  for  many  years  a  resident  of  New  Orleans. 
While  the  guns  at  Fort  Sumter  were  still  reverberating  in  our  hearts, 
she  pressed  the  farewell  kisses  on  the  lips  of  her  son,  from  whom  she 
had  never  been  separated. 

About  this  period,  Mrs.  Stanford  contributed  several  lively  tales  of 
life  in  the  Crescent  City,  and  poems  to  the  "  Southern  Monthly,"  pub 
lished  in  Memphis. 

Says  she:  "My  writings  are  only  to  be  considered  for  the  idolatrous 
love  that  inspires  them."  And  few  mothers  in  our  land  can  read  her 
"  lines  "  without  deep  feeling. 

When  New  Orleans  fell,  feeling  that  by  remaining  there  she  could 
no  longer  guard  and  protect  her  son's  pecuniary  interests,  she  felt 
that  the  one  thing  left  for  her  to  do  was  to  find  her  child,  to  be  where 
she  might  at  an  instant's  notice  seek  him.  She  had  a  motherless  niece 
to  care  for;  and  not  wishing  to  proceed  on  a  wild,  blind  search  for  her 
boy,  she  went  to  the  old  home  of  her  girlhood,  (Port  Gibson,)  and 
found  rest  and  sympathy  with  those  who  had  loved  her  in  the  long- 
ago.  For  weeks  she  had  not  heard  from  her  son,  until  she  reached 
this  place,  and  some  returning  soldiers  told  her  of  his  whereabouts. 
When  he  wrote  to  her,  he  forbade  her  attempting  to  join  him,  urging 
her  to  remain  with  her  old  friends,  "  and  perhaps  they  might  meet 
again  —  perhaps  he  might  be  ordered  farther  South — but  he  could  not 
ask  for  a  furlough." 

At  last,  the  mother's  patient  waiting  was  rewarded.  Her  son,  who 
had  been  for  over  a  year  in  East  Tennessee,  and  in  Kentucky  with 
General  Bragg,  was  ordered  to  Vicksburg  with  General  Stevenson's 
Division  —  ordered  where  his  mother  waited  for  him.  Need  we  say 
that  the  mother  was  soon  with  her  son  ?  Some  months  before  this, 
finding  her  resources  fail,  being  able  to  get  nothing  from  New  Orleans, 
she  had  opened  a  school  for  the  support  of  her  niece  and  self,  that  she 
might  not  take  from  her  son,  and  this  was  in  successful  operation  when 
she  visited  him.  She  found  him  all  that  a  mother's  loving  heart  could 
hope  or  pray  for,  but  so  wedded  to  his  duties,  so  proud  of  the  noble 
battery  he  commanded,  that  again,  as  he  had  done  before,  he  kissed 
her  and  blessed  her,  and  gave  her  to  another's  charge,  and  left  her,  to  go 
where  she  could  not  follow.  The  long  siege  of  Vicksburg  succeeded. 

What  the  year  is  to  a  mother,  what  it  is  to  the  country,  is  well 
told  to  the  heart,  in  these  few  artless,  plain  verses : 


618  SOUTHLAND     WRITERS. 


MY  NEW- YEAR'S  PRAYER. 

New- Year's  Day  !    Alas !  the  New- Year's  days 
That  stalk  like  troubled  ghosts  before  my  sight, 

From  happy  youth,  through  weary  years,  till  now, 
When  my  life's  sun  must  soon  be  lost  in  night, 

And  I,  in  death's  untroubled,  tranquil  sleep, 

Shall  learn  how  sweet  it  is  to  cease  to  weep  I 

New -Year's  Day  !    Yes,  I  remember  one  — 

The  day  I  watched  a  little  rosy  face 
Of  six  months  old,  with  dimpling  smiles 

Peep  out  from  under  folds  of  silk  and  lace : 
That  face,  the  sweetest  to  a  mother's  eyes 
That  ever  made  of  earth  a  paradise. 

And  then  another  New- Year  I  recall, 

Bringing  sweet  prattlings  I  so  loved  to  hear  ; 

The  only  music  I  could  understand, 

The  only  notes  that  ever  charmed  my  ear, 

Save  th'  accompaniment  to  this  sweet  song  — 

The  steps  that  bore  my  tottering  boy  along. 

Then,  New- Year's  days  in  numbers  pass  me  by, 
Bearing  new  beauties  both  to  heart  and  mind, 

And  adding  graces  to  the  manly  form  — 
I  did  not  wonder  in  the  three  to  find 

All  I  once  hoped  to  see  united  there  — 

My  son's  young  promise  was  so  passing  fair. 

But  where,  in  this  dark,  cheerless  New- Year's  day, 

In  thy  full  manhood,  must  I  look  for  thee? 
I  shall  not  find  in  that  worn  face  such  smiles 
.  As  dimpled  through  the  folds  of  lace  for  me ; 
And  stern,  harsh  lines  are  on  the  once  smooth  brow, 
Babe  so  beloved  !  —  a  man  and  soldier  now  I 

Ah  !  since  thy  mother's  arms  were  round  thee  last, 
Since  thou  wert  folded  to  thy  mother's  breast, 

Since  her  appealing  voice  hath  met  thine  ear, 
Since  her  last  kisses  on  thy  lips  were  prest, 

My  son,  my  darling,  what  has  chanced  to  thee? 

Loving  as  then  wilt  thou  return  to  me  ? 


MARY    STANFORD.  619 

Ghosts  of  the  New  Years !  with  them  come  the  hopes 
That  made  the  promise  of  thy  youth  more  fair, 

Whispering  how  thy  manhood's  love  would  guard 
A  mother's  age  from  every  grief  and  care. 

How  canst  thou  be  to  me  this  guard  and  shield, 

Thou  —  in  constant  change  from  tent  to  battle-field  ? 

Ghosts  of  the  New  Years,  visit  him  to-day, 
My  baby  once !  —  my  country's  soldier  now ! 

Paint  to  his  memory  the  unselfish  love 
That,  since  a  mother's  lips  first  touched  his  brow, 

Till  now,  when  such  despairing  words  are  said, 

A  mother's  heart  has  showered  on  his  head. 

Spirit  of  to-day  !  breathe  in  his  ear  the  prayers 
That  day  and  night  ascend  on  high  for  him ; 

Unceasing,  hopeful,  trustful,  brave  and  strong  ! 
Earth's  dreams  delude  —  its  brightest  hopes  grow  dim  — 

But  from  the  ruins  soars,  fresh,  undefiled, 

The  mother 's  prayer — "  GOD  BLESS  AND  SAVE  MY  CHILD." 

When  the  siege  of  Vicksburg  was  over,  and  for  weeks  after,  there 
was  no  one  hardy  enough  to  tell  her  "  she  was  childless  !  "  Weeks  of 
darkness  came,  after  this;  but  there  was  one  thing  to  live  for — to 
find  the  grave  of  her  son.  Once  more,  for  one  night  the  same  roof 
sheltered  mother  and  son  — he  in  his  coffin,  into  which  she  dared  not 
look  !  And  through  the  Federal  army,  and  down  the  river,  and  amid 
perils  and  sufferings,  and  hardships  that  it  is  a  wonder,  now,  she  could 
ever  endure,  she  brought  her  darling  to  Port  Gibson  —  there,  to  live 
and  die  beside  him  —  to  be  buried  in  his  grave  —  in  his  arms,  if  it 
could  be. 


"DIED  AT  HIS  GUNS."* 

Extract  from  a  letter  found  in  the  trunk  of  a  young  soldier  who  "died  at  his  guns," 
in  the  siege  of  Vicksburg. 

"  DEMOPOLIS,  Ala.,  June,  1863. 

....  "Will  yua  not  name  one  of  your  guns  in  honor  of  my  little  daughter,  the 
•?     I  have  not  forgotten  your  wish  to  make  her  your  patron  saint ;   and  if,  in  the 


anticipated  battle  at  Vicksburg,  your  battery  comes  out,  as  I  know  it  will,  triumphant, 
I  will  present  you  a  stand  of  colors,  the  white  stripe  of  which  shall  be  made  of  my  bridal 

robe  of  moire-antique 

"  You  are  placed  where  only  brave  and  gallant  men  are  called ;  for  well  the  enemy 

*  From  "  Banner  of  the  South." 


620  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

know  how  important  tho  acquisition  of  that  stronghold.  You  may  receive  this  on  the 
eve  of  one  of  the  grandest  of  the  many  grand  battles  fought  for  your  country's  freedom. 
For  God's  sake,  do  not  falter !  Let  them  wade  through  a  sea  of  blood  before  they  take 
a  gun  from  your  command." 

In  answer  to  the  above,  was  written  the  following : 

"BAPTIZED  IN  BLOOD." 

Lady,  when  you  counselled  this  young  soldier  — 

This  spirit  bold  and  daring  —  did  no  voice 

Whisper  within  you  that  for  him,  perchance, 

There  might  be  fearful  prescience  in  your  words  ? 

And  did  your  heart  not  bleed,  recalling  then 

The  soft,  dark  eyes  that  looked  such  love  in  yours, 

Or  danced  in  mirth,  or  proudly  answered  back 

Your  own  proud  patriot  look  of  dire  resolve  ? 

Did  you  bethink  you,  then,  of  that  sweet  smile, 

So  full  of  tenderness,  your  startled  heart, 

Albeit  guarded,  to  its  depths  was  stirred, 

As  if  a  dream  of  girlhood  had  come  back? 

And  did  then  mingle  with  these  later  dreams 

Remembrance  of  the  fresh,  glad  voice  that  made 

Such  music,  soft  or  tender,  sad  or  gay ; 

While  came  the  thought,  "  How  dear  all  these  must  be 

To  some  fond  heart  that  finds  in  them  its  world ; 

For  't  is  no  common  love  proud  natures  win ;  " 

And  knowing  this,  did  you  not,  lady,  know, 

To  "  wade  through  sea  of  blood,"  alas !  might  be 

To  close  the  eyes,  take  from  those  lips  their  smile, 

And  still  the  music  of  that  voice  fore'er? 

"Baptized  in  blood  the  noble  gun  shall  be  I " 
Pledge  lightly  made,  but  royally  redeemed : 
Whose  heart's  blood  flowed  to  make  that  promise  good? 
Oh,  noblest  blood  that  ever  dyed  our  soil ! 
Oh,  truest  heart  that  ever  ceased  to  beat  I 
Oh,  purest  patriot  of  the  martyr  dead ! 
Brave  blood  so  vainly  spilt,  so  quickly  dried  — 
True  heart,  with  all  its  wealth  of  love,  forgot  — 
Pure  patriot,  'mid  a  country's  woes  passed  by, 
Save  in  a  mother's  proud  idolatry  ! 

Fair  friend  —  brave  comrades  —  weeping  lady-love  — 
Where  were  ye  then  ?    Amid  the  tumult  wild, 
And  through  the  city's  wrecks,  the  mother  't  was 


MARY    STANFORD.  621 

Who  sought  and  found  the  lonely  grass-grown  mound 

Where  slept  her  darling.     'Twas  the  mother's  love, 

Through  victor  foes,  and  from  beneath  their  flag, 

That  bore  her  coffined  idol  to  a  grave 

Lone,  still,  and  quiet,  where  the  step  of  those 

Who  made  her  childless  might  not  thence  to  stray. 

The  mother  't  is  who  watches,  morn  and  noon 

And  night,  that  sacred  spot,  o'ergrown  with  flowers, 

And  keeps  upon  his  tomb  the  fadeless  wreath, 

Pure  as  his  valor,  fresh  and  green  as  lives 

His  noble  memory  down  in  her  heart. 

Fair  friend  —  brave  comrades  —  mourning  lady-love  — 

And  dear  companions  all  —  where  are  ye  now? 

In  Sacred  Writ  we  read  of  one  whom  Christ, 
The  blessed  Saviour,  at  the  gates  of  Nain, 
Brought  back  from  death  to  life ;  and  gave,  unasked, 
Again  unto  the  weeping  mother's  arms  — 
This  one  —  a  widowed  mother's  only  child! 


MRS.  S.  B.  COX. 

MRS.  COX,  whose  maiden  name  was  Hughes,  was  born  in  War 
ren  County,  Mississippi,  five  miles  from  Vicksburg.  Her  par 
ents  were  Virginians,  but  adopted  Alabama  as  their  home,  where  her 
father,  Judge  Beverley  Hughes,  presided  at  the  bar  with  distinction. 
They  removed  to  Mississippi  six  months  before  the  birth  of  the  subject 
of  this  sketch,  and  eighteen  months  before  the  death  of  her  father.  A 
lady  friend  says :  "  Unfortunately  for  Miss  Hughes,  in  the  death  of 
her  father  she  lost  the  hand  which  would  have  been  the  fashioning 
and  guiding  power  of  her  life." 

Her  mother  married  a  second  time — a  man  chilling  in  his  manner — 
and  her  childhood  passed  without  one  genial  ray  of  warmth  to  expand 
and  open  the  hidden  nature  within  her,  save  rare  interviews  with  her 
mother,  full  of  love  and  tenderness,  and  usually  embracing  one  theme 
that  was  exhaustless  —  the  virtues  and  graces  of  her  father.  Says 
Mrs.  Cox,  alluding  to  this : 

"  These  conversations  about  my  father  were  so  colored  by  the  admiration 
of  a  devoted  wife,  that  he  alone  seemed  to  fill  my  idea  of  God's  nobleman, 
and  early  became  the  inspiration  of  my  life.  To  be  worthy  of  being  his 
daughter,  enlisted  all  my  faculties  in  every  effort  I  made  for  good ;  no  temp 
tation  beset  me  that  I  was  not  fortified  against  it  by  the  thought,  that,  to 
yield  to  it  would  be  unworthy  the  daughter  of  my  father.  My  successes  at 
school  were  alike  due  to  this  single  inspiration  of  my  life." 

Miss  Hughes  was  married  very  young  —  fourteen  years  and  three 
months  old  on  her  wedding-day.  Her  life  became  very  checkered :  at 
the  age  of  twenty-eight,  when  life  is  bright  and  full  of  joyousness  to 
many,  she  became  hopelessly  bedridden.  The  trials  of  her  life  were 
numerous ;  but,  to  use  her  own  language  —  breathings  of  the  mother : 
"  I  was  a  mother,  and  this  bore  me  up  to  live  and  labor  for  the  im 
mortal  ones  God  had  intrusted  to  my  care." 

For  eight  years  she  could  not  take  a  step,  or  even  stand  alone ;  and 
she  says : 

"  Yet,  amid  all,  God  was  very  good  in  preserving  my  mind  clear,  and 

622 


s.  B.  cox.  623 

strengthening  my  will  to  conquer  every  repining  for  myself,  and  devote  my 
remaining  energies  to  the  training  and  cultivation  of  my  four  little  daugh 
ters.  Up  to  the  opening  of  the  war,  my  world  was  found  in  these,  my  life 
centred  in  them;  but  a  mightier  appeal  thrilled  my  being;  my  country 
called,  and  my  whole  heart  responded.  I  felt  that  even  the  claim  of  my 
children  was  secondary  to  it,  and  devoted  my  time,  my  purse,  and  my 
strength,  without  reserve,  to  the  sick  of  the  Confederate  army." 

A  friend,  who  is  indebted  to  an  eye-witness  for  his  information,  says : 

"  At  one  time  the  enemy  shelled  the  hospital,  which  was  near  her  residence. 
Her  house,  though  within  reach,  was  out  of  range  of  their  guns,  and  she 
opened  her  doors  to  the  inmates  of  the  hospital,  and  for  several  weeks  there 
were  three  hundred  soldiers  with  her." 

At  the  raising  of  the  siege,  her  means  were  exhausted ;  and  at  the 
commencement  of  the  second  siege,  General  M.  L.  Smith  informed  her 
that  her  house  had  fallen  within  the  line  of  fortifications,  and  would 
have  to  be  destroyed.  The  Father  seems  strangely  to  provide  for  his 
creatures  in  the  very  darkest  moments  of  their  lives.  Just  at  this 
crisis  with  Mrs.  Cox,  homeless  and  without  money,  her  husband  was 
discharged  from  active  duty  on  account  of  failing  health,  and  returned 
from  Virginia  in  time  to  prevent  her  despairing,  if  such  a  hopeful 
mind  as  that  of  Mrs.  Cox  can  be  looked  upon  as  "  giving  up."  Her 
husband  applied  for  and  obtained  government  employment  in  the 
Trans-Mississippi  Department,  and  they  removed  to  Shreveport.  The 
reaction  from  active  excitement  to  comparative  quiet  prostrated  Mrs. 
Cox  again  entirely  to  bed,  and  thus  it  was  with  her  until  the  news  of 
the  fall  of  Vicksburg  fell  like  a  leaden  weight  upon  her.  Says  she : 

"  For  the  first  time,  woe  took  the  place  of  full  confidence,  and  never  again 
was  the  bow  of  hope  unclouded  in  my  heart ;  yet  when  the  fall  of  the  Con 
federacy  was  told  to  me,  I  reeled  and  staggered  under  the  blow,  not  aware 
for  weeks  if  my  vitality  would  survive  it." 

The  superior  facilities  to  be  found  in  the  public  schools  of  New 
Orleans  for  educating  their  daughters,  decided  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cox  to 
make  that  city  their  home.  They  were  scantily  supplied  with  the 
"  world's  goods."  Mr.  Cox,  over  fifty  years  of  age,  without  a  son  to 
assist  him,  had  to  begin  anew  the  world,  and  for  nearly  two  years 
they  struggled  for  the  necessaries  of  life  —  "a  struggle  such  as  cannot 
be  conceived  of  unless  felt." 

Mrs.  Cox  had  contributed  to  the  papers  of  Vicksburg  and  Shreve 
port,  among  other  articles,  several  appeals  to  the  Southern  people  upon 


624  S  O  U  T  II  L  A  N  D    W  R  I  T  £  R  S. 

subjects  pertaining  to  the  war.  These  were  published  over  the  ?/ 
plume  of  "  Beverley."  Now,  in  the  terrible  strait  of  poverty,  the  idea 
of  writing  for  money  came  to  her.  Says  she :  "  I  caught  at  it  as  a  drown 
ing  man  clutches  at  a  straw,  and  almost  as  hopelessly  and  desperately. 
Without  an  introduction  to  the  press  of  New  Orleans,  I  made  my  \\ay 
into  the  journals."  A  writer  in  the  "Crescent"  thus  refers  to  her: 

"We  think  a  woman,  even  an  invalid,  who  can  neither  sit  in  anything 
but  a  robe  de  chambre,  nor  stand  long  enough  to  have  her  hair  frizzed,  like 
our  own  'Beverley;'  whose  pathos  moves  to  tears;  whose  philosophy  makes 
us  proud  of  our  own  sex ;  whose  wit  and  sarcasms  few  would  wish  to  en 
counter  ;  whose  faith  has  for  years  irradiated  her  sick-chamber  with  a  hal 
lowed  light,  is  infinitely  superior  to  a  lady  whose  highest  acquisitions  arc 
moire-antiques,  thule,  coiffures,  tinsel,  or  even  diamonds;  whose  resoun 
happiness  are  theatres,  masquerades,  and  dancing;  whose  faith  exhibits  itself 
in  a  few  Lenten  visits  to  church ;  whose  self-abnegation  and  humiliation  are  the 
changing  from  one  luxurious  diet  to  another  perhaps  a  little  more  deh'cate." 

In  the  Spring  of  1869,  Mrs.  Cox  lost  the  use  of  her  right  hand  and 
arm  from  paralysis, — her  physician  ascribing  it  to  the  incessant  writing 
for  weeks  to  meet  her  engagements,  for  she  supported  her  family  with 
her  brain-work. 

Mrs.  Cox  continues  to  contribute  to  the  various  papers  of  New 
Orleans,  and  to  several  Northern  journals,  particularly  to  the  Sunday 
edition  of  the  "Times"  newspaper. 


SPIRIT-WHISPERINGS. 

Philosophy  stands  up  in  the  severe,  grave  dignity  of  truth,  and  demands 
demonstrable  facts  in  all  things.  But  is  there  nothing  within  us.  to  the 
intellect  vague,  shadowy,  and  undefined,  which  may  not  be  reasoned  upon, 
yet  is  a  feeling,  a  consciousness  from  which  we  may  reason  and  deduce  facts 
as  clearly  as  from  anything  material?  Surely  this  is  evident  to  all. 

We  may  draw  from  every  created  thing  or  being  an  undeniable  evidence 
of  a  Great  First  Cause  or  Creator.  From  the  delicate  violet,  which  opens  it- 
beautiful  petals  out  upon  the  bosom  of  the  brown  earth,  up  to  the  dewy 
kisses  of  the  night-winds;  to  the  stone-girt  mountain,  which,  from  its  burn 
ing  caldron  of  boiling  lava,  hurls  forth  destruction  and  death  for  miles 
around;  from  the  tiny  insect  to  his  own  image  in  man, —  all  proclaim  most 
unmistakably  the  existence  of  a  God,  the  Creator  of  all  things,  and  the  llulcr 
of  bis  ereation.  But  perhaps  the  most  satisfying  evidence  to  man  is  the 
demand  in  his  own  being  for  a  God  —  that  universal  reaching  out  of  the 
soul  which  is  found  in  the  breast  of  the  most  benighted  heathen. 


s.  B.  cox.  625 

Of  the  inspiration  of  the  Bible,  but  slight  evidence  is  given  by  historians 
since  the  advent  of  the  Saviour ;  but  it  is  when  we  compare  its  high  and 
holy  truths  with  the  self-evident  facts  of  man's  life,  that  we  find  the  first 
positive  proof  which  is  apt  to  be  taken  hold  of  by  man.  Let  the  unpreju 
diced  thinker  turn  his  mind  in  upon  his  own  soul,  and  compare  its  aspira 
tions  and  its  longings  with  the  truths  of  the  Bible,  and  therefrom  will  he 
draw  evidence  beyond  refutation ;  and  therein  is  the  mystical  chain  of  spirit 
with  spirit ;  that  half-hidden,  half-defined  something  which  baffles  the  lore 
of  philosophy,  yet  enchants  and  delights  man. 

Trouble  upon  trouble  enters  in  upon  the  heart  of  man ;  care  upon  care 
silvers  the  dark  threads,  and  bends  the  head  low  upon  the  stooped  shoulders ; 
the  weary,  aching  thought  of  the  brain,  which  brings  no  fruition;  the  half- 
requited  labor,  the  heart-sickening  disappointment  in  friendship  and  love ; 
and  man  grows  weary  and  faint,  and  cries  out  for  the  waters  of  oblivion  to 
sweep  over  his  soul  in  this  dark  hour  of  woe  and  despair.  Then  comes  the 
small,  still  voice  of  the  Spirit,  and  whispers:  "All  of  earth  is  passing  away, 
and  heaven  is  eternal ! " 

Death  lays  its  icy  touch  upon  our  idol,  and  our  heart  is  torn  until  every 
fibre  is  bleeding  out  its  own  vitality,  and  reason  staggers  upon  its  throne. 
Then  whispers  the  Spirit :  "  Be  still,  and  rest  in  the  hands  of  thy  God."  It 
is  only  a  little  while  sooner  than  you  that  the  spirit  has  bid  adieu  to  the 
troubles  of  life. 

A  little  white  bird  wafted  its  downward  way  from  paradise,  and,  finding 
its  tiny,  delicate  form  growing  cold  and  numb  in  this  bleak  world's  grasp, 
sought  refuge  in  my  quiet  home  —  for  a  few  brief  hours  folded  its  snowy 
wings  gently  and  lovingly  upon  my  breast ;  but  though  I  nestled  it  warmly 
within  my  bosom,  and  wooed  it  to  linger  with  me,  it  gave  a  few  farewell 
moans,  and,  softly  gliding  from  its  earthly  casket,  took  its  returning  flight  to 
paradise.  Thus  came  and  went  our  little  babe.  But  a  cell  had  been  opened 
up  in  our  hearts  for  love  of  her ;  and  though  we  consigned  to  the  dark  earth 
that  beautiful  waxen  form  of  purest  whiteness,  and  other  children  have  been 
born  to  us,  love  for  her  is  still  warm  within  my  heart.  That  heart  beats 
still  for  the  angel  one.  Her  little  baby  form,  her  eyes  of  heavenly  blue,  her 
mouth  of  sweetest  mould,  are  yet  fresh  within  my  memory.  Ah !  who  can 
doubt 'that  we  two  will  meet  again?  My  spirit  whispers  that  my  heart 
throbs  are  not  for  nought,  but  will  beat  on  throughout  eternal  ages. 

Ah !  yes,  let  us  listen  to  these  sweet  whisperings  of  the  Spirit,  and  they 
will  breathe  into  our  souls  strength  to  conquer,  strength  to  bear.  Listen  to 
them,  confide  in  them,  and  they  will  rob  death  of  its  sting,  and  open  out  to  us 
a  great,  broad  vista  of  ages  of  eternal  bliss.  Wife,  by  the  death-bed  of  thy 
husband ;  mother,  by  thy  dead  child,  take  comfort  from  it  to  hush  thy  grief. 

There  is  a  Spirit  whispering  of  warning  and  hope  to  the  young  man  in  a 
career  of  sin  and  profligacy,  bidding  him  pause,  reflect,  and  follow  its 
promptings. 


626  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

To  the  old  man  tottering  upon  the  verge  of  a  dishonored  grave,  it  says : 
"  Even  now  listen  to  me." 

Frail  woman,  in  thy  fall  and  degradation,  listen  to  it;  hush  it  not  in  thy 
poor,  sin-stained  soul.  When  all  the  world  turn  from  thee,  and  only  sin 
and  shame  clasp  hands  with  thee,  it  will  prove  thy  best  friend.  It  is  sent  to 
such  as  thee  by  God. 


A  SKETCH  FKOM  REAL  LIFE  DURING  THE  WAR. 

In  a  war  of  invasion,  who  can  say  that  woman's  part  is  not  the  severest? 
Quietly  she  must  watch  the  march  of  the  foe  over  the  land  dearer  than  all 
else  to  her,  the  land  in  which  all  the  love  and  pride  of  her  soul  are  garnered : 
mile  by  mile  she  must  behold  their  devastations,  and  yet  be  denied  the  ex 
citement  of  resistance,  which  almost  swallows  up  the  terror  of  conflict.  She 
may  ply  her  needle  for  the  soldier,  labor  to  raise  provision  for  the  army,  and 
attend  the  sick  and  wounded.  These  are  glorious  deeds  of  a  beautiful  mis 
sion  upon  earth ;  but  all  these  may  be  well  performed  even  while  a  constant 
heart  aches  and  a  terrible  dread  is  slowly  tearing  the  heart-strings  and  wear 
ing  away  life  itself.  Ay,  she  may  ply  the  needle  and  force  back  the  scald 
ing  tears  "  which  hinder  needle  and  thread,"  while  they  fall  back  upon  her 
heart  hot  and  burning.  She  may  watch  the  writhing  agony  of  the  wounded, 
and  the  death-throes  of  the  dying.  The  far-distant  wail  of  anguish  from 
wife,  mother,  daughter,  and  sister  may  ring  within  her  ears  as  she  folds  the 
cold  hands  over  the  pulseless  breast,  and  her  heart  echoes  back  the  cry, 
while  it  is  almost  bursting  with  indignation  against  the  foe  who  has  brought 
such  desolation  to  her  very  door.  She  must  turn  shelterless  and  foodless 
from  the  smouldering  ashes  of  her  home,  with  her  children  clinging  to  her 
knees,  yet  no  hand  of  resistance  can  she  raise  to  the  barbarous  deed.  In 
silence  she  must  accept  the  terrible  cruelty,  and,  for  the  sake  of  her  little  ones 
looking  to  her  for  life,  she  must  crave  food  from  the  hands  which  applied  the 
burning  torch  to  her  home.  Yes,  we  say  that  in  a  war  of  invasion  woman's 
part  is  far  more  terrible  than  man's,  although  she  may  rarely  face  shot  or 
shell.  Look  upon  her  powers  of  cheerful  endurance  amid  these  terrific 
trials,  and  we  exclaim,  Surely  there  is  a  heroism  in  it  equal  to  any  in  life! 

During  the  late  war,  our  land  abounded  with  instances  of  cheerful  hero 
ism  in  woman  under  all  the  dreadful  terrors  of  an  invading  army ;  but  we 
think  that  it  was  in  country  homes,  often  cut  off  from  every  white  neighbor 
by  the  distance  of  several  miles,  that  the  most  striking  heroism  was  to  be 
found. 

Woman  saw  that  the  land  must  continue  to  be  cultivated,  that  famine 
might  be  kept  off,  and,  naturally  timid  and  shrinking  as  she  is,  she  cast  all 
fear  aside,  and  arose  equal  to  the  demand  of  the  times.  But  it  is  not  merely 
to  eulogize  woman  that  we  have  taken  up  our  pen,  to  present  our  readers 


s.  B.  cox.  627 

with  a  short  sketch  of  a  country  maiden  during  the  late  war  —  a  sketch  true 
to  the  lives  of  many  more  than  the  one  we  present.  t 

Mr.  Kline  lived  in  Mississippi,  between  Jackson  and  Vicksburg,  near  the 
railroad.  Laura,  his  eldest  daughter,  was  just  sixteen  when  the  war  opened. 
She  had  been  reared  in  all  the  luxury  of  a  wealthy  Southern  planter's  life. 
Just  as  soon  as  the  Federal  army  was  within  reach,  every  able  young  hand, 
save  a  boy  of  fourteen,  left  and  went  to  the  enemy,  leaving  the  old  and  in 
firm  to  add  to  the  care  of  providing  the  necessaries  of  life. 

"Wife,  I  suppose  we  may  as  well  turn  the  cows  and  calves  out  together; 
old  Charity  is  too  rheumatic  to  attend  to  them,  and  1  have  tried  in  vain  for 
two  hours  to  milk  them." 

"  Xo,  indeed,  papa ;  we  cannot  do  without  butter  and  milk.  I  can  milk 
the  cows." 

"  You  milk  !     Where  upon  earth  did  you  learn?  " 

"  I  learned  when  I  was  quite  a  little  girl.  Do  you  not  remember  how  you 
and  mother  used  to  call  me  in  from  the  pen  and  seat  me  in  the  house,  lest  I 
should  grow  rude  and  hoidenish?  Well,  I  stole  out  often  enough  to  learn 
to  milk  quite  well;  but,  papa,  you  look  as  red  as  if  all  your  blood  were  in 
your  face,  and  you  are  panting  as  though  you  had  been  running  a  foot 
race.  It  cannot  be  the  effort  of  milking  so  much,  since  you  did  not  get  a 
drop ;  pray  tell  us  what  it  is  all  about?  "  A  mischievous  twinkle  stole  out  of 
the  brown  eyes,  and  rippled  over  the  dimpled  cheeks  and  around  the  cherry 
lips,  as  she  looked  banteringly  upon  her  father. 

"  Well,  Miss  Saucy-box,  I  have  had  a  chase  after  nearly  every  cow  in  the 
pen,  and,  after  closing  in  the  corner  first  one  and  then  the  other,  have  not 
been  able  to  draw  one  drop  of  milk.  Nor  do  I  believe  that  those  little  white 
hands,  which  have  only  toyed  with  flowers  all  your  life,  will  ever  get  a  pint ; 
but  if  you  wish,  you  can  try." 

"  Try !  yes  indeed,  and  milk  them  too.  After  all,  I  do  not  believe  you 
lords  of  creation  are  half  as  useful  as  we  bits  of  womanhood." 

And  the  blithe  creature  shook  her  curls  saucily,  and  rang  out  a  merry 
laugh. 

"  Why  are  you  taking  that  immense  bucket,  Laura.  If  you  succeed  in 
milking,  three  or  four  will  yield  milk  and  butter  sufficient  for  us." 

"  I  know  that,  mother ;  but  I  am  not  going  to  lose  so  much  for  our  sick 
soldiers ;  you  have  been  sending  them  twenty  pounds  of  butter  every  week, 
and  I  intend  to  continue  doing  so." 

"  Things  are  very  different  now  from  what  they  have  been ;  neither  your 
father  nor  Henry  can  spare  time  to  take  it.  How  will  you  get  it  there,  after 
it  is  made  ?  " 

"  Never  do  you  mind,  mother ;  '  where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a  way.'  I 
have  it  all  planned  very  nicely." 

Blithely  she  tripped  away,  with  her  bucket  on  her  arm,  looking  back  and 
laughing  at  her  parents. 


628  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Twice  was  Mr.  Kline  called  to  bear  the  immense  bucket  in,  full  of  the  de 
lightful  beverage,  and  each  time  Laura  bantered  him  with  every  step;  but  :H 
he  quaffed  the  refreshing  milk  after  a  day  of  toil,  he  gave  her  full  permission 
to  laugh  at  him  so  long  as  she  succeeded. 

Bright  as  a  bird,  the  young  girl  flitted  through  the  house  and  over  tin- 
place,  and,  though  you  would  scarcely  believe  her  working,  all  was  done  in 
order  and  in  time,  and  her  half  invalid  mother  was  spared  every  extra  labor. 
Mr.  Kline  had  learned  how  much  more  and  better  work  can  be  done  by  one's 
own  hands  than  by  servants,  and  they  were  all  just  becoming  contented 
with  the  change  in  their  mode  of  living,  when  the  Federal  army  reached 
their  neighborhood  ;  and  then  began  the  work  of  devastation  and  ruin  in  real 
earnest.  Their  house  soon  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  foe,  and  they  looked 
helplessly  on  while  the  flaming  torch  was  applied  to  the  magnificent  edifice, 
which,  in  a  few  hours,  was  a  heap  of  burning  coals.  They  supposed  that 
Mr.  Kline  had  gold  ajwut  him,  and  resorted  to  various  tortures  to  extract  it 
from  him.  These  terrors  and  exposure  soon  snapped  the  attenuated  threads 
which  held  together  the  frail  life  of  Mrs.  Kline,  and  in  three  days  after  she 
was  burned  out  of  house  and  home,  they  laid  her  to  rest  in  a  quiet  spot  in  the 
garden. 

"  Laura,  I  feel  completely  crushed ;  there  is  no  life  nor  strength  left  for 
labor  and  struggle.  I  feel  that  I  too  must  die ;  nor  can  I  wish  to  live  alter 
she  is  gone.  What  will  you  do,  child  ?  " 

"  Father,  do  not  talk  thus,  do  not  feel  thus :  there  are  three  younger  than 
I.  For  these  we  must  arouse  from  our  grief;  for  these  we  must  work  on.  We 
owe  it  to  the  helpless  ones ;  we  owe  it  to  the  dead  ;  we  owe  it  to  your  sons 
in  the  field,  to  our  struggling  country,  to  show  that  as  long  as  we  live  we 
can  be  self-sustaining." 

"  What  do  you  propose  now,  Laura  ?  all  is  gone,  even  the  roof  over  our 
heads." 

"  The  land  yet  remains;  the  gardener's  house  is  untouched.  This  contains 
two  rooms,  and  is  shrouded  in  trees,  and  lies  in  such  a  deep  valley  that  it 
will  not  be  likely  to  attract  the  enemy's  notice.  Indeed,  I  suppose  the  ter 
rible  wrong  they  have  done  us  will  satisfy  them,  and  they  will  be  willing  to 
leave  us  to  our  poverty  without  further  molestation.  You  have  cows  in  the 
big  black  swamp ;  three  or  four  of  these  must  be  gotten  up,  and  with  the 
provision  we  buried  we  can  live  until  we  can  raise  more.  The  negroes,  ex 
cept  Aunt  Charity  and  Henry,  must  be  sent  within  the  enemy's  lines  to  be 
fed.  I  will  give  them  a  letter  to  the  Yankee  general,  who  will  feed  them, 
which  is  more  than  we  can  do.  With  this  arrangement  we  can  live,  if  we 
husband  well  what  we  have.  Will  you  not  arouse  to  this  duty,  dear  father? 
And  will  you  not  take  comfort  in  your  children?" 

"  I  will  try,  my  child." 

Mr.  Kline  followed  this  advice ;  and  the  heroic,  noble  girl  hushed  the  sor 
row  for  her  great  loss  deep  within  her  motherless  heart,  and  arose  to  cheer 
fulness  and  labor  for  the  sake  of  the  dear  ones  left  to  her  care,  and  the  laud 


s.  B.  cox.  629 

of  her  birth,  her  love,  and  her  pride.  Industrious  hands  and  a  cheerful 
spirit  accomplish  wonders,  and  there  was  soon  an  air  of  neatness  and  com 
fort  about  the  two  rooms  embowered  in  trees  and  wild  vines,  which  refreshed 
and  comforted  the  weary  spirit  of  her  almost  broken-hearted  father,  and  the 
little  ones  declared  that  it  was  nicer  than  the  great  fine  house.  The  piano 
was  gone,  but  little  Eddie  had  run  away  with  her  guitar  and  hid  it,  and  each 
evening,  after  her  father  had  retired  to  bed,  she  played  and  sang,  until,  soothed 
and  comforted,  he  dropped  to  sleep,  as  gently  as  a  babe  listening  to  its 
mother's  lullaby. 

The  catastrophe  has  come.  The  war  is  ended.  Fathers,  sons,  brothers,  and 
lovers  flock  home,  as  the  chased  deer,  famishing  for  the  cooling  draught, 
rushes  to  the  clear,  bubbling  water.  Two  brothers  out  of  four  are  welcomed 
back  to  the  desolate  home-spot  of  the  Klines.  They  resolved  to  restore  to.  the 
family  something  of  their  former  prosperity,  and  with  active  energy  they 
entered  upon  a  life  of  labor ;  God  blessed  almost  their  every  eifort ;  but, 
strange  enough  to  her  father,  Laura  for  the  first  time  drooped ;  a  shade  of 
sadness  often  flitted  across  the  lovely  face,  and,  as  days  and  nights  passed  by, 
deepened  until  it  became  habitual ;  the  birdlike  motion  departed  from  the 
hour  her  mother  was  laid  beneath  the  dark  earth ;  now  the  regular,  bright 
movement  of  the  cheerful  girl  was  gone,  and  every  step  flagged  wearily,  and 
every  effort  seemed  a  burden :  yet  she  ceased  not  in  her  daily  labor.  Mr. 
Kline  looks  on  in  heaviness  of  heart,  and  feels  that  if  she  too  goes,  he  will 
not  long  survive  her,  —  nor  does  he  wish  to.  He  knows  the  glorious  powers 
of  self-reliance  which  have  so  peculiarly  marked  the  last  four  years  of  her 
life,  and  forbears  to  question  her,  only  growing  tenderer  and  more  caressing 
each  day  in  his  efforts  to  woo  back  light  and  life  to  her  soul,  knowing  well 
what  a  blast  and  blight  the  fall  of  her  loved  country  has  cast  upon  a  nature 
like  hers. 

It  has  been  a  cool,  rosy-tinted  Fall  day ;  all  animal  existence  seems  instinct 
with  renewed  strength  and  life.  The  dogs  run,  frisk,  and  leap  ;  the  poultry 
crow,  sing,  and  cackle ;  the  horses  toss  their  heads,  bound,  and  frolic  like 
country  children  turned  out  of  school ;  the  birds  flit  from  bough  to  bough, 
and  once  more  renew  their  glad  spring  songs ;  yet  Laura  changes  not,  except 
to  look  more  spiritual,  and  wear  a  sweet,  sad  smile  as  she  casts  her  eyes 
oftener  to  heaven ;  but  the  spirit  of  beauty,  if  not  of  life,  seems  to  have 
entered  her  sad,  quiet  soul,  and  she  has  arranged  her  toilet  for  the  evening 
with  unusual  care  and  taste :  a  purely  white  apron  contrasts  beautifully  with 
the  little  brown  figured  muslin,  which  sits  so  nicely  to  the  dainty  little  form, 
while  soft,  white  ruffles  relieve  the  neck  and  hands,  and  the  pretty  feet, 
laced  closely  in  a  pair  of  well-fitting  boots,  peep  from  beneath  the  short 
dress  with  every  step ;  an  exquisite  blush-rose  trembles  in  her  auburn  curls, 
while  a  bud  and  a  geranium-leaf  are  clasped  at  her  throat  with  a  bright 
coral  pin. 

She  has  just  finished  milking.  The  cows  are  looking  lazily  contented, 
crunching  their  cuds,  with  their  calves  beside  them.  The  little  white  cedar 


630  'SOUTHLAND  WRITERS. 

pail,  filled  with  the  snowy  froth  of  the  smoking  milk,  which  smoke  curls 
gracefully  in  thin  wreaths  above  the  frosted  pile,  is  poised  in  her  hands,  as 
she  pauses  beneath  an  umbrageous  oak  to  observe  a  man  slowly  advancing 
toward  her  on  a  worn-looking  horse.  He  was  thin  and  pale,  and  looked  like 
a  war-broken  veteran,  with  the  empty  sleeve  dangling  by  his  side:  as  her 
eye  rests  upon  him,  she  never  dreams  that  he  is  a  young  man  of  only  twenty- 
eight.  A  shade  of  pink  flushes  into  the  wan,  pale  face,  and  the  dim  eyes 
brighten  as  he  pauses  before  her  ;  the  next  instant  a  dark  shade  of  sadnr-s 
deepens  in  its  bloodless  lines,  and  he  tries  in  vain  to  speak. 

"  Sir,  you  look  weak  and  faint ;  take  a  cup  of  this  warm  fresh  milk ;  it  will 
revive  your  strength.  Now  let  me  hold  your  horse  while  you  alight ;  you 
must  tarry  with  us  until  you  are  strong  enough  to  continue  your  journey." 

The  soldier  was  very  feeble,  but  he  was  soon  by  her  side. 

"Surely  my  senses  do  not  deceive  me  :  you  must  be  the  Laura  Kline  I  left 
on  yonder  burned  hill  four  years  ago." 

"I  am  she,  sir  ;  but  it  cannot  be  that  you  are  Robert  Dillingham?" 

Now  the  blood  rushes  in  a  full  torrent  over  face  and  neck,  while  the  sweet 
voice  trembles  and  quivers,  and  the  fragile  form  shakes  like  a  wind-tossed  leaf. 

"  Oh,  Laura,  can  it  be  that  your  heart  yet  warms  to  the  maimed,  broken 
soldier?" 

Now  the  weary,  worn  man  flushed  scarlet,  and  the  eyes  eagerly  sparkled 
with  joyous  expectancy,  as  he  clasped  the  little  hand  and  looked  quest  ion- 
ingly  down  into  the  girlish  face. 

"  Robert,  can  you  doubt  it  ?  Did  I  not  love  you  a  thousand  times  better 
for  these  very  honors,  I  would  be  unworthy  the  land  of  our  birth,  unworthy 
a  noble  soldier's  love.  I  will  be  an  arm  unto  you  through  life,  as  well  as 
your  devoted  wife.  For  the  first  moment  since  our  country  fell,  I  now  feel 
that  I  have  something  to  live  for,  something  to  give  me  happiness  even  amid 
our  great  loss." 

The  soldier  clasped  her  to  his  war-scarred  breast,  and  tears  of  bliss  too  full 
for  smiles  fell  upon  her  flushed  face,  as  he  pressed  a  fervent  kiss  upon  the 
upturned  brow.  Disengaging  herself  from  his  embrace,  the  old  light  of 
life  and  fun  broke  over  her  smiling  face,  as  she  said  : 

"Come,  Robert,  let  us  go  in;  father  will  be  so  pleased  to  know  that  you 
are  alive,  and  to  see  you  home  once  more.  He  and  the  boys  are  doulul. -s 
wondering  what  has  become  of  me  —  and  if  they  are  to  have  any  milk  for 
supper  to-night.  I  will  carry  in  the  pail  now ;  but  in  a  few  days  I  shall  rail 
you  into  service.  But,  for  the  world,  you  are  not  to  come  among  my  oows 
until  the  milking  is  over,  for  they  have  a  belligerent  antipathy  to  you  lords 
of  creation."  .... 

Mr.  Kline  soon  divined  the  cause  of  Laura's  drooping,  when  he  saw  tln> 
old  light  coming  back  to  her  eye  and  the  old  life  to  her  soul,  as  the  soldier- 
guest  improved  in  health  and  strength  day  by  day ;  and  silently  thanked 
God  that  she  would  be  spared  to  his  old  age. 


ELIZA  POITEVENT. 

PEARL  RIVERS,  as  by  her  pseudonym  is  the  "  sweet  singer  "  best 
known,  takes  her  name  from  that  beautiful  stream,  Pearl  River, 
near  the  banks  of  which  she  was  born. 

Miss  Poitevent  is  a  maiden,  hardly  of  adult  years ;  the  daughter  of 
Captain  \V.  J.  Poitevent,  a  builder  and  owner  of  steamboats,  and  a 
manufacturer  of  lumber  at  Gainesville,  on  that  river,  about  twenty- 
five  miles  across  the  plain  from  the  Bay  of  St.  Louis,  which  is  now,  as 
Gainesville  formerly  was,  the  seat  of  justice  of  Hancock  County,  Mis 
sissippi. 

On  her  father's  side,  Miss  Poitevent  is  of  French  descent ;  on  the 
mother's,  she  is  connected  with  the  Russ  family  —  of  the  Florida  par 
ishes  of  Louisiana  and  Southeastern  Mississippi.  Shortly  after  the 
birth  of  Eliza,  her  mother's  health  was  so  delicate  that  she  was 
advised  by  her  physician  to  travel,  and  it  was  decided  that  the 
"  babe  "  should  be  left  with  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Leonard  Kimball.  When 
Mrs.  Poitevent  returned,  she  found  her  babe,  a  healthy,  rosy  little 
girl,  taking  her  first  steps  —  who  did  not  want  to  leave  her  aunt  for 
her  mother.  Mrs.  Kimball  was  childless,  and  had  become  so  much 
attached  to  "  little  Pearl,"  that  she  earnestly  entreated  that  she  might 
be  left  with  her.  It  was  finally  decided  that  "  Pearl  "  should  remain 
with  her  aunt. 

And  on  the  banks  of  the  Hobolochitto,  with  her  aunt  and  uncle, 
"  Pearl  Rivers "  spent  her  pure  and  happy  childhood.  She  had  no 
playmates,  and  roamed  the  meadows  and  fields  in  search  of  com 
panions.  There  was  not  a  narrow  path  that  trailed  its  way  through 
the  dense  forest  of  pines  that  she  did  not  know;  and  flowers,  birds,  and 
insects  were  more  than  flowers,  birds,  and  insects  to  her.  They  were 
her  friends  and  companions,  and  she  talked  to  them  and  sang  with 
them  through  many  a  happy  day. 

This  poem  is  a  true  picture  of  her  childhood,  more  beautifully 
expressed  in  her  own  "  sweet  language "  than  could  possibly  be  told 

in  my  sober  prose : 

631 


632  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 


M-Y-S-E-I^-F. 

"  Tell  mo  something  of  yourself." 

Letter  from  a  Stranger  — E.  E.  C.,  of  Ohio. 

Well,  once  I  was  a  little  girl, 

A-dwelling  in  the  wood, 
Beside  a  laughter-loving  stream, 

With  aunt  and  uncle  good: 

Within  a  rambling  old  log-house, 

That  thought  it  was  no  sin 
Through  other  places  than  the  door 

To  let  the  sunshine  in: 

With  quaint  old  chimneys  at  each  end, 

Where  swallows  used  to  come 
And  twitter  low,  "  How  glad  are  we 

To  find  a  summer  home ! " 

With  windows  low  and  narrow  too, 

Where  birds  came  peeping  in 
To  wake  me  up  at  early  morn; 

Arid  oft  I  used  to  win 

The  Cherokees  to  climb  the  sill; 

The  gossip-loving  bee 
To  come  so  near  that  he  would  pause 

And  buzz  a  word  with  me. 

No  other  child  grew  on  the  place; 

A  merry,  roguish  elf, 
I  played  "  keep  house "  in  shady  nooks, 

All  by  my  little  self. 

I  leaped  the  brook,  I  climbed  the  bars; 

I  rode  upon  the  hay; 
To  swing  upon  the  old  barn-gate 

To  me  was  merry  play. 

I  waded  in  the  shallow  stream 

To  break  the  lilies  sweet, 
And  laughed  to  see  the  minnows  swim 

So  near  my  rosy  feet. 


ELIZA     POITEVENT.  633 

I  rode  the  pony  down  to  drink, 

He  played  some  pranks  with  me; 
But  I  had  learned  to  hold  on  tight, 

And  was  as  wild  as  he. 

I  could  not  keep  my  bonnet  on ; 

The  briers  tore  the  frill ; 
The  winds  untied  the  knotted  strings, 

And  tossed  it  at  their  will. 

The  sun  grew  friendly  with  me  then, 

And  still  the  signs  I  trace 
Of  many  a  merry  trick  he  played 

Upon  my  neck  and  face. 

My  dress  and  apron  bore  the  sign 

Of  frolic  wild  and  free ; 
The  brambles  caught  my  yellow  hair, 

And  braided  it  for  me. 

My  teacher  was  a  dear  old  man, 

Who  took  me  on  his  knee; 
And  better  far  than  vexing  books 

He  held  a  kiss  from  me. 

I  could  not  learn  geography; 

The  "States"!  could  not  "bound;" 
But  many  a  city  built  by  ants 

And  daisy  towers  I  found. 

Arithmetic  and  grammar 

Were  never  in  my  line ; 
No  measured  rule  was  made  to  chain 

A  spirit  free  as  mine. 

But  I  was  quick  to  learn  some  things, 

As  all  the  rills  could  tell; 
I  knew  just  where  the  waters  bright 

With  softest  music  fell. 

I  knew  the  names  of  all  the  birds, 

And  which  could  sing  the  best; 
I  knew  just  where  the  speckled  hen 

Had  made  her  latest  nest. 


634  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

I  knew  how  many  drops  of  rain    . 

The  pitcher-plant  could  hold, 
And  on  the  butterfly's  bright  wing 

How  many  spots  of  gold. 

And  how  the  spider's  curious  web 

Was  jewelled  by  the  dew, 
And  where  the  largest  chincapins 

And  whortleberries  grew. 

For  I,  though  but  a  simple  child, 
In  Nature's  ways  was  wise ; 

I  followed  her  day  after  day 
With  wonder-loving  eyes. 

I  knew  the  track  the  ground-mole  made, 

And  followed  it  to  see 
Where  all  the  windings  strange  would  end. 

I  knew  the  hollow  tree 

Where  hid  the  sly  fox-squirrel, 

And  the  hole  where  slept  the  hare; 

But  at  their  open,  humble  door 
I  never  set  a  snare. 

I  was  a  wild,  but  loving  child ; 

My  little  feet  ne'er  trod 
Upon  the  weakest,  meanest  thing 

That  crawls  upon  the  sod. 

They  were  my  playmates  and  my  friends : 
And,  more  than  all,  I  knew 

That  if  I  loved  his  creatures  well 
The  Lord  would  love  me  too. 

And  sometimes  I  would  lonely  be, 

And  so  I  learned  to  talk 
To  all  the  insects  and  the  birds; 

And  once  I  took  a  walk 

To  ask  the  sweet  white  violets, 
That  grew  down  by  the  creek, 

To  learn  me  how  to  speak  the  tongues 
That  all  the  flowers  speak. 


ELIZA     POITEVEXT.  635 

I  thought  it  best  to  go  to  them ; 

They  are  so  meek,  you  know, 
And  teachers  like  these  humble  ones 

Can  best  God's  wisdom  show. 

They  seemed  to  think  I  was  too  young 

To  learn  their  language  well : 
I  thought  I  heard  them  ask  the  stream, 

Quite  low,  if  it  could  tell 

How  many  years  the  little  maid 

Had  laughed  with  it;  for  when 
I  guessed  what  all  their  whispers  meant, 

And  softly  answered,  "Ten," 

They  smiled  as  though  they  thought  it  time 

The  little  maid  should  turn 
From  all  her  harum-scarum  ways, 

And  sit  by  them,  and  learn 

The  gentle  words  and  modest  grace 

That  maidens  all  should  wear ; 
That  guards  the  heart  and  makes  the  face, 

Though  homely,  sweet  and  fair. 

And  so  I  softly  laid  my  head 

Down  close  beside  their  own 
Upon  the  fragrant  mossy  bed : 

And  in  the  softest  tone, 

So  that  the  zephyr  could  not  hear 

And  spread  it  to  the  breeze, 
Or  rustle  it  with  laughter  light 

To  all  the  listening  trees, 

They  taught  me  my  first  lesson  through, 

And  said  some  other  day, 
When  they  were  strengthened  by  the  dew, 

That  I  might  leave  my  play, 

And  they  would  talk  to  me  again. 

I  kissed  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  deep  within  my  heart  I  hid 

My  wealth  of  flower-lore. 


l>36  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

For  something  seemed  to  tell  me  then 

That    I,  perhaps,  sonic  day 
Could  tell  to  others  what  I  learned 
From  violets  that  May, — 

That  God  would  give  my  heart  a  voice, 
And  send  me  forth  to  sing 

Of  all  the  honor  and  the  love 
That  nature  bears  her  King. 

So  I  was  never  lonely  more  ; 

For  flower,  bird,  and  bee, 
Though  each  spake  different  languages, 

Were  understood  by  me. 

Well,  now  I  am  a  woman  grown, 
And  I  have  learned  to  braid 

My  yellow  hair  quite  prettily 
Without  the  brambles*  aid. 

I  do  not  climb  the  plum-trees  now, 

Nor  swing  upon  the  gate, 
For  fear  among  the  "  proper "  ones 

"  A  talk  "  it  might  create. 

But  though  I  have  more  quiet  grown, 

1  still  am  Nature's  child, 
And  oft  she  leads  me  to  the  haunts 

And  sports  of  childhood  wild. 

A  new  house  sits  upon  the  hill, 

Close  by  the  river's  side, 
With  chimneys  straight  and  windows  bold, 

And  galleries  long  and  wide, 

Close-shingled  roof  and  plastered  wall ; 

But  dearer  far  would  be 
That  old  log-cabin,  where  the  sun 

Peeped  through  the  cracks  at  me. 

I  do  not  shine  in  Fashion's  court; 

My  name  is  scarcely  known 
Among  the  throng  of  worshippers 

That  kneel  around  her  throne. 


ELIZA    POITEVENT.  637 

But  deep  within  the  woods,  amid 

A  wilderness  of  pines, 
I  dwell  with  aunt  and  uncle  still, 

And  on  my  brow  there  shines 

The  happy  light  contentment  gives; 

And  in  my  heart  I  wear 
This  blessed  truth,  that  God  is  love, 

And  beauty  everywhere. 

When  thirteen  years  of  age,  Pearl  was  sent  to  the  Amite  Female 
Seminary,  in  Amite  County,  Miss.,  where  her  many  merry  pranks 
soon  won  for  her  the  name  of  "the  wildest  girl  in  school."  She  gradu 
ated  at  the  age  of  "sweet  sixteen,"  excelling  in  composition. 

A  stanch  "  little  rebel,"  her  first  attempt  at  verse  was  to  write 
patriotic  words  to  several  patriotic  airs,  which  she  sang  to  a  circle  of 
not  critical,  but  admiring  friends. 

It  was  not  until  the  "  first  year  of  the  war  "  that  any  of  her  pro 
ductions  appeared  in  print. 

Seeing  a  copy  of  "The  South,"  a  weekly  paper  published  in  New 
Orleans  by  John  W.  Overall,  Esq.,  she  was  much  pleased  with  the 
bold,  dashing  editorials,  and  sent  several  of  her  poems  to  him,  trem 
bling  at  the  boldness  of  the  step.  Her  poems  were  not  only  published, 
but  were  favorably  noticed,  and  a  friendly,  encouraging  letter  from 
Mr.  Overall  followed.  She  received  little  or  no  encouragement  from 
the  members  of  her  own  family,  and  she  considers  that  she  owes  much 
to  her  first  literary  friend  and  patient  critic,  John  "W.  Overall,  who 
introduced  her  to  the  public. 

Since  that  time,  her  gift  of  song  has  won  her  many  appreciative 
friends  among  the  literati  of  our  country,  but  she  looks  back  with 
grateful  remembrance  to  the  one  who  caught  the  first,  faint,  trembling 
notes  of  her  lyre. 

After  the  discontinuance  of  "The  South,"  "  Pearl  Rivers"  contrib 
uted  to  the  "  New  Orleans  Sunday  Times,"  and  now  contributes  to  the 
"  Picayune,"  "  New  York  Home  Journal,"  and  other  journals. 

A  lady  who  knows  her,  says,  "  She  always  carries  her  scrap-book 
and  pencil  with  her,  and  writes  at  all  times." 

She  is  one  of  Nature's  sweetest  poets,  and  as  pure-hearted  as  the 
blue  river  from  which  she  takes  her  name  —  a  wild-wood  warbler, 
knowing  how  to  sing  of  birds  and  flowers  and  flowing  brooks,  and  all 
things  beautiful. 


638  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

If  "Pearl  Rivers"  lives, her  poetical  talent  must  increase  in  lustre 
and  value  as  the  years  roll  by. 


A  CHIRP  FROM  MOTHER  ROBIN. 

See  yon  little  Mother  Robin, 

Sitting  on  her  humble  nest : 
Learn  from  her  my  poem-lesson ; 

Nature's  teachers  are  the  best. 

Other  nests  are  lined  more  softly  — 
Larger  nests  than  hers  she  sees ; 

Other  nests  are  swinging  higher 
In  the  summer's  gentle  breeze;  — 

But  the  Robin  is  contented  ; 

Mine  is  warm  enough,  she  says  — 
Large  enough  to  hold  my  birdies 

Through  their  tender  nesting-days. 

Smaller  cradle,  warmer  cover ! 

For  my  little  ones,  she  sings ; 
Four  there  are,  but  see  how  snugly 

They  are  tucked  beneath  my  wings. 

And  I  envy  not  my  neighbors, 
Redbird,  Bluebird,  Lark,  or  Thrush ; 

For  the  breeze  that  rocks  the  tree-tops 
Rocks  my  cradle  in  the  bush. 

And  the  same  bright  sunshine  warms  me- 
By  the  same  kind  hand  I  'm  fed  ; 

With  the  same  green  earth  around  me, 
And  the  same  sky  overhead. 

Though  my  dress  is  something  plainer 
Than  my  cousin's,  Madame  Red  ; 

Though  I  have  no  vest  of  crimson, 
And  no  gay  hood  on  my  head ; — 

Still,  my  robe  of  graver  colors 
Suits  my  station  and  my  nest; 

And  the  Master  knows  what  costume 
Would  become  a  Robin  best. 


ELIZA    POITEVENT.  639 


THE  EOYAL  CAVALCADE. 

Spring  is  coming,  Spring  is  coming, 
Through  the  arch  of  Pleasant  Days, 

With  the  harps  of  all  her  minstrels 
Tuned  to  warble  forth  lier  praise. 

In  her  rosy  car  of  Pleasure, 
Drawn  by  nimble-footed  Hours, 

With  a  royal  guard  of  Sunbeams, 

And  a  host  of  white-plumed  Flowers, 

From  the  busy  Court  of  Nature 
Rides  the  fair  young  Queen  in  state, 

O'er  the  road  of  Perfect  Weather, 
Leading  down  to  Summer  Gate. 

Brave  old  March  rides  proudly  forward, 
With  her  heralds,  Wind  and  Rain ; 

He  will  plant  her  standard  firmly 
On  King  Winter's  bleak  domain. 

Young  Lord  Zephyr  fans  her  gently, 
And  Sir  Dewdrop's  diamonds  shine  ; 

Lady  May  and  Lady  April 
By  her  Majesty  recline. 

Lady  April's  face  is  tearful, 
And  she  pouts  and  frets  the  while ; 

But  her  lips  will  part  with  laughter 
Ere  she  rides  another  mile. 

Lady  May  is  blushing  deeply, 
As  she  fits  her  rosy  gloves ; 

She  is  dreaming  of  the  meeting 
With  her  waiting  Poet-loves. 

Over  meadow,  hill  and  valley 
Winds  the  Royal  Cavalcade, 

And,  behind,  green  leaves  are  springing 
In  the  tracks  the  car-wheels  made. 

And  her  Majesty  rides  slowly 
Through  the  humble  State  of  Grass, 


G40  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Speaking  kindly  to  the  Peasants 
As  they  crowd  to  see  her  pass. 

In  the  corners  of  the  fences 

Hide  the  little  Daisy-spies, 
Peeping  shyly  through  the  bushes, 

Full  of  childish,  glad  surprise ; 

And  her  gentle  Maids  of  Honor, 

Modest  Violets,  are  seen 
In  their  gala-dresses  waiting, 

By  the  road-side,  for  their  Queen. 

By  her  own  bright  light  of  Beauty 

Does  she  travel  through  the  day ; 
And  at  night  her  Glowworm  Footmen 

With  their  lanterns  guide  the  way. 

She  is  coming,  nearer  !  nearer  I 

Hark  the  sound  of  chariot-wheels ! 
Fly  to  welcome  her,  young  minstrel, 

Sing  the  joy  your  spirit  feels. 

The  "  Royal  Funeral,"  which  has  never  been  printed,  is  a  fitting 
companion  to  the  "  Royal  Cavalcade." 


THE  EOYAL  FUNERAL. 

THE    BODY    OP    THE   QUEEN    LYING   IN   STATE. 

There  is  mourning  through  the  valleys, 
There  is  mourning  on  the  hills, 

And  I  hear  a  broken  music 
In  the  voice  of  all  the  rills. 

Spring,  the  fairest  of  the  seasons  — 
Spring,  the  Virgin  Queen,  is  dead, 

And  a  younger,  browner  sister 
Reigns  upon  her  throne  instead. 

Royal  June,  with  rosy  fingers, 
Softly  closed  her  violet  eyes, 

And  within  the  Court  of  Nature 
Now  in  costly  state  she  lies. 


ELIZA    POITEVENT.  641 

And  the  young  Lord  Zephyr,  sighing, 

Yields  his  life  upon  her  bier, 
And  the  diamonds  of  Sir  Dewdrop 

Melt  away  into  a  tear. 

Brave  old  March,  her  veteran  soldier, 

Covered  with  a  tattered  fold 
Of  the  banner  borne  so  proudly, 

Lies  beside  her,  dead  and  cold. 

And  October,  bold  usurper ! 

(Now  his  arm  has  feeble  grown;) 
On  Her  Majesty's  dominion 

Reaps  the  harvest  he  has  sown. 

Fair,  capricious  Lady  April 

Sleepeth  deep  and  calmly  nigh ; 
Bound  her  lip  a  smile  still  lingers, 

Still  a  tear  within  her  eye. 

On  a  bier  of  withered  roses 

Lies  the  tender  Lady  May, 
While  her  constant  loves,  the  Poets, 

Royal  honors  to  her  pay. 

Low  and  reverently  kneeling, 

Bound  her  lovely  form  they  throng, 
And  embalm  her  precious  beauty 

With  the  costly  myrrh  of  song. 

Unto  each  she  left  a  token, 

As  a  dying  pledge  of  love : 
One  she  gave  her  azure  girdle; 

One  she  gave  her  rosy  glove ; 

One  she  gave  her  silver  sandals, 

Bich  with  shining  gems  of  dew ; 
O'er  the  shoulders  of  another 

She  her  precious  mantle  threw. 

But  to  me,  the  humble  singer, 

Leaning  on  my  harp,  apart 
From  the  crowd  of  Boyal  Poets, 

She  has  left  a  broken  heart. 
9 


642  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 


THE   PROCESSION. 

Hark !  I  hear  a  Voice  proclaiming, 
Mournfully,  Bring  forth  your  dead ! 

And  through  Nature's  holy  Temple 
Has  the  solemn  summons  sped. 

With  the  incense  of  her  Glory 
Burning  low  and  sweet  and  dim, 

And  the  harps  of  all  her  minstrels 
Tuned  to  chant  a  funeral  hymn: 

In  a  robe  of  fragrance  shrouded 
By  the  spirits  of  the  Flowers ; 

In  a  sable  hearse  of  sorrow, 
Drawn  by  weary-footed  Hours : 

From  the  silent  Court  of  Nature 
Comes  the  fair,  dead  Queen  in  state, 

O'er  the  road  of  Gloomy  Weather, 
Leading  down  to  Winter  Gate. 

Through  the  Summer  Land  they  bear  her, 

By  a  quiet,  sunny  way  — 
Through  the  golden  Autumn  Country 

To  the  Regions  of  Decay. 

Over  meadow,  hill,  and  valley 

Winds  the  Royal  Funeral, 
And  my  spirit  hears  the  pealing 

Of  a'  solemn  funeral  knell. 

She  is  coming  nearer,  nearer; 

Hark !  that  mournful,  mournful  strain  ; 
Fly  to  honor  her,  young  minstrel, 

Joining  in  the  funeral  train. 


FLORIDA. 


643 


MARY  E.  BRYAN. 

HERE  is  not  a  name  among  the  literary  stars  of  the  "  South 
land  "  that  fills  a  warmer  place  in  every  heart  than  that  of 
Mary  E.  Bryan.  Tastes  differ  about  literature  as  about 
everything  else;  but  there  are  somethings  which  challenge 
the  universal  admiration  of  mankind:  some  faces  —  some  forms — as 
the  "Venus  de  Medicis"and  the  "Apollo  Belvidere"  —  and  some 
books,  although  the  latter  are  most  rare.  Mrs.  Bryan  comes  as  near 
filling  this  exclusive  niche  in  the  gallery  of  letters  as  any  woman  of 
her  age  who  ever  wrote.  She  does  not  dazzle,  like  the  fitful  light  of 
the  "Borealis  race,"  nor  sparkle  like  sunset  on  a  summer  sea — neither 
does  she  charm  us  by  the  smoothness  and  polish  of  her  style ;  but  she 
manages  to  creep  into  the  hearts  of  her  readers,  as  few  young  writers 
have  ever  done.  This  comes  of  her  own  earnestness  —  that  deep, 
thrilling  earnestness  which  marks  all  her  writings,  and  especially  her 
poetry.  There  her  thoughts  well  up  fresh  and  warm  from  the  depths 
of  a  passionate  heart,  and  never  fail  to  meet  a  responsive  throb  in  the 
hearts  of  her  readers. 

"  Bryan  —  hers  the  words  that  glisten, 

Opal  gems  of  sunlit  rain ! 
So  much  the  woman,  you  may  listen 

Heart-beats  pulsing  in  her  brain ! 
She  upon  her  songs  has  won 

Hybla's  honey  undistilled ; 
And  '  from  wine-vats  of  the  sun,' 
With  bright  nectar  overrun, 

Her  urns  of  eloquence  are  filled!"* 

She  is  a  poetess  by  nature.     Largely  endowed  with  that  sense  of  the 
beautiful,  which  Poe  called  "  an  immortal  instinct  deep  within  the 


*  Mrs.  L.  Virginia  French. 


645 


646  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

spirit  of  man,"  she  gives  us  glimpses  of  the  loveliness  which  lies 
beyond  the  common  sight,  and  "  whose  very  elements,  perhaps,  apper 
tain  to  eternity  alone." 

Mrs.  Bryan  has  taken  no  care  of  her  literary  fame;  she  has  been  at 
no  pains  whatever  to  extend  it.  She  has  scattered  the  brilliant  pro 
ductions  of  her  intellect  hither  and  thither  among  the  periodicals  of 
the  South,  as  a  tree  flings  its  superabundant  blossoms  to  the  breeze ; 
and  she  has  taken  no  thought  of  them  afterward.  Whatever  she 
writes,  she  finishes  with  care,  being  led  to  do  so  out  of  respect  and 
love  for  her  profession ;  but  when  written  and  sent  to  the  press,  it  is 
forgotten  — scarcely  even  being  read  over  by  her  after  its  publication. 
To  one  who  has  studied  her  closely,  the  reason  of  this  is  obvious. 
Mrs.  Bryan  possesses  true  genius  —  hers  is  the  real  artist-feeling, 
which  judges  of  the  attained  by  the  attempted  ;  and  nobly  as  she 
writes,  she  has  written  nothing  to  satisfy  her  own  high-placed  ideal  — 
nothing  that  seems  "worthy  of  her  hope  and  aim  more  highly 
mated." 

Mrs.  Bryan  is  a  native  of  Florida  —  daughter  of  Major  John  D. 
Edwards,  an  early  settler  of  that  State,  and  among  the  first  and  most" 
honored  members  of  its  Legislature.  Both  on  the  paternal  and  mater 
nal  sides,  she  belongs  to  excellent  and  honorable  families.  Her  mother, 
whose  maiden  name  was  Houghton,  was  herself  an  accomplished  and 
talented  lady.  She  lived  in  retirement,  devoting  her  time  principally 
to  the  education  of  her  daughter.  Mrs.  Edwards  was  a  charming 
woman  and  model  mother.  She  made  herself  the  companion  of  her 
daughters,  (three  in  number,)  won  their  confidence  by  her  forbearing 
gentleness,  and  sympathy  with  their  little  cares,  thoughts,  and  aspira 
tions.  She  was  never  too  much  engaged  to  answer  their  inquiries,  or 
give  them  any  information  they  desired.  Mary's  mind  opened  early  — 
too  early,  perhaps,  for  a  cheerful  and  healthy  youth.  While  other 
children  played  with  their  dolls,  she  roamed  through  the  beautiful 
solitudes  around  her  home,  or  wandered  alone  on  the  shores  of  the 
beautiful  Gulf,  where  her  parents  were  accustomed  to  spend  their 
summers — her  mind  filled  with  dreams  and  yearnings  that  bewildered 
her  by  their  vagueness.  She  discovered  in  part  what  these  yearnings 
meant,  when,  at  the  age  of  ten  years,  she  was  sent  on  a  visit  to  her 
aunt,  Mrs.  Julia  McBride,  so  well  known  in  Florida  for  her  piety  and 
philanthropy.  The  family  of  this  aunt  (her  husband  and  a  noble 
group  of  grown-up  sons  and  daughters)  lay  at  rest  in  the  church-yard 


MARY    E.    BRYAN.  647 

on  a  neighboring  hill ;  and  but  for  the  occasional  companionship  of 
her  brother,  the  lady  lived  alone.  Mary  could  wander  at  will  in  her 
poetic  reveries  through  the  groves  of  orange  and  crape  myrtle  that 
embowered  "  Salubrity,"  and  through  the  wide  old  gardens,  scattered 
over  with  half  ruined  summer-houses,  and  enclosed  by  palings  hung 
with  the  Multiflora  and  Cherokee  Rose.  She  was  never  lonely;  for,  as 
she  has  written  since  : 

"The  poet  never  is  alone; 

The  stars,  the  breeze,  the  flowers, 
All  lovely  things,  his  kindred  are 
And  charm  his  loneliest  hours." 

But  this  insensate  companionship  did  not  satisfy.  She  longed  for 
more  intelligent  teachers,  with  a  vague  yearning,  which  she  did  not 
comprehend,  until  one  day  she  chanced  to  gain  access  to  the  library 
of  her  uncle  —  Col.  R.  B.  Houghton  —  who  was  absent  on  professional 
duties.  It  was  the  opening  of  a  fairy  world  to  the  imaginative  mind 
of  the  child.  In  that  shadowy,  green-curtained  library-room,  with 
the  orange-branches  brushing  against  the  window-panes,  she  entered 
upon  a  new  life.  Her  reading  had  been  hitherto  confined  to  her  text 
books,  and  now  she  revelled  in  the  poetry  of  the  masters,  and  in  ro 
mances  of  another  age.  Much  of  what  she  read  she  understood  through 
her  mind's  early  development,  no  less  than  through  the  intuition  of 
genius ;  and  what  her  young  reason  could  not  fathom  was  absorbed 
by  feeling  and  imagination,  as  one  catches  the  tune  of  a  song,  though 
it  is  sung  too  far  off  for  the  words  to  be  understood. 

She  read  as  a  gifted  child  would  do  —  losing  her  own  personality  in 
that  of  the  characters  delineated,  feeling  every  emotion  as  though  it 
were  a  personal  experience,  thrilling  over  deeds  of  heroism,  shuddering 
over  those  of  crime,  burning  with  indignation  as  she  read  of  cruelty 
and  injustice,  and  weeping  passionately  over  the  pictures  of  wrong 
and  suffering  and  undeserved  doom.  She  mused  and  dreamed  con 
tinually  over  the  revelations  thus  suddenly  opened  to  her.  None 
guessed  what  influences  were  moulding  the  mind  of  the  precocious 
child. 

Could  they  not  read  the  secret  in  her  dreamy  eyes  and  abstracted 
manner? 

Her  uncle  did  so  when  he  returned  home,  and  he  closed  his  library- 
doors  resolutely  against  the  little,  pale,  wistful  face. 


648  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Years  after,  in  the  prime  of  her  womanhood,  she  declared  to  him* 
that  those  hours  of  stolen  communion  with  the  "  spirits  of  the  libra 
ry  "  were  more  a  blessing  than  a  bane.  Perhaps  they  were —  perhaps 
it  was  to  these  she  owed  the  early  maturity  of  her  mind  and  the  vari 
ety  of  her  style. 

At  eleven  years  old,  she  was  sent  to  a  boarding-school  in  Thomas- 
ville,  Georgia.  Here  the  shy  little  recluse,  who  had  been  at  home 
among  the  "stately-stepping  fancies"  conjured  up  from  the  pages  of 
romance  and  history,  experienced  a  shrinking  timidity  when  brought 
into  intimate  contact  with  girls  of  her  own  age.  To  her  surprise  she 
found  herself  far  in  advance  of  these  in  her  studies  — so  efficient  had 
been  her  mother's  teaching,  so  ready  her  own  receptive  powers.  She 
was  placed  in  a  class  of  young  ladies,  and,  says  Col.  Houghton: 

"I  remember  to  have  seen  her  during  an  examination  of  the  school  —  a 
slender  little  figure  at  the  head  of  the  class  of  grown-up  girls,  her  pale  face 
lit  up  resplendently  by  dark,  earnest  eyes,  as  she  repeated  page  after  pairc 
of  intellectual  philosophy,  or  musically  rendered  the  Eclogues  of  Virgil. 
She  was  a  special  object  of  interest  and  curiosity  to  most  of  the  audience 
there  assembled,  for  she  was  known  to  be  a  religious  enthusiast.  A  '  revi 
val  '  had  not  long  before  '  converted '  a  majority  of  the  girls  of  the  boarding- 
school:  many  of  them  had  'backslided,' some  still  held  to  the  faith  in  a 
quiet,  commonplace  way;  only  this  one,  prone  to  extremes  through  her 
ardent,  impulsive  nature,  became  a  fanatic,  refraining  from  joining  in  the 
sports  and  pastimes  of  her  playmates,  refusing  to  answer  a  question  posi 
tively  lest  there  might  be  room  for  a  doubt,  giving  all  her  pocket-money  to 
the  poor  children  of  the  school,  and  (greatest  sacrifice  of  all,  to  one  whose 
love  for  the  beautiful  made  her  delight  in  bright  colors  and  lovely  apparel) 
rejecting  the  pretty  garments  sent  her  from  home,  and  appearing,  in  the 
midst  of  her  gayly-dressed  class,  in  a  plain,  faded  frock. 

"Her  composition  upon  this  occasion  had  for  its  theme,  'The  Shadow^ 
and  Sunshine  of  Life.'  I  have  before  me,  now,  a  mental  picture  of  that 
rapt,  young  face  —  so  child-like  in  its  contour,  so  old  in  the  expression  of  the 
large  thoughtful  eyes,  that  were  lighted  with  enthusiasm  as  she  concluded 
with, a  brief  but  glowing  vision  of  the  'land  beyond  the  vale  of  shadows 
and  fleeting  sunshine.' " 

This  fanatical  tendency,  peculiarly  strange  in  so  young  a  child, 

*  We  are  indebted  for  many  facts  in  this  sketch  to  Col.  R.  B.  Houghton,  of  Florida, 
formerly  well  known  as  an  accomplished  writer  and  eloquent  public  speaker.  He  has 
known  Mrs.  Bryan  from  her  earliest  youth,  and  by  his  example  first  gave  a  literary 
turn  to  her  mind,  that,  in  fertility  of  imagination  and  ease  of  expression,  bears  a  con 
siderable  resemblance  to  his  own. 


MAEY    E.    BRYAN.  649 

greatly  troubled  Mary's  parents,  who  were  proud  of  her  brilliant  tal 
ents.  It  must  have  been  a  deep  impression,  for,  gentle  and  yielding  as 
her  nature  was,  easily  influenced  by  those  she  loved,  and  most  sensitive 
to  ridicule,  it  yet  resisted  entreaties,  expostulation,  and  ridicule.  In 
time  it  wore  away. 

"  Only  once,"  says  Col.  Houghton,  "  did  she  speak  to  me  of  this  period 
of  her  life.  '  It  contained,'  she  said,  '  agonies,  that  I  could  not  again  hear 
and  live.  For  the  least  venial  sin  —  real  or  imagined  — I  was  visited  by 
pangs  of  remorse.  Often  have  I  passed  whole  nights  on  my  knees  in  prayer, 
unconscious  of  cold  or  fatigue  in  the  more  acute  mental  anguish  I  endured. 
Yet,  after  the  long  wrestle,  the  agonizing  doubt  and  despair,  there  would 
corr.e  a  wonderful  reaction,  and  I  would  experience  moments  of  ecstasy  in 
describable.  I  cannot  understand  it.  It  is  a  mystery  to  my  maturer  years.' " 

Mary  was  then  only  twelve  years  old.  A  short  time  afterward  her 
parents  removed  to  Thomasville,  for  the  purpose  of  educating  their 
daughters,  and  made  for  themselves  a  suburban  home,  beautiful  with 
vineyards,  gardens,  and  orchards.  In  the  years  that  followed,  Mary 
wrote,  and  published  in  a  Thomasville  paper,  poems,  and  a  story  that 
ran  through  several  numbers  of  the  paper.  She  was  still  a  school 
girl,  iardly  sixteen,  when  her  friends  were  surprised  to  hear  that  she 
was  married —  married  to 'the  son  of  a  Louisiana  planter.  Her  mar 
riage  vas  as  unexpected  to  her  as  it  was  to  her  friends  and  relatives. 
An  hoar  before  she  took  upon  herself  the  irrevocable  vows,  she  was 
sitting,  school-girl  fashion,  on  the  rug  before  the  fire  in  her  own  room, 
quietly  studying  her  Latin  lesson.  Two  hours  afterward,  she  had  bid 
den  acliai  to  her  girlish  pursuits,  to  her  parents,  sisters,  and  friends, 
and  was  »n  her  way  to  her  husband's  home  on  the  banks  of  Red  River. 
During  tl.e  first  year  of  her  marriage  she  passed  through  some  bitter 
experiences — experiences  which  one  so  young,  so  sensitive,  and  so 
ignorant  01  life,  was  illy  prepared  to  meet.  At  the  end1  of  a  year,  she 
was  visited  by  her  father,  who  thought  best  that  she  should  accompany 
him  back  to  her  old  home.  Of  the  partial  separation  that  ensued, 
(partial,  beciuse  she  was  constantly  visited  by  her  husband,  who  was 
devoted  to  her,  and  no^estrangement  ever  existed  between  them,)  it 
is  not  necessaly  to  say  any  more  than  that  it  was  deemed  advisable  by 
her  father,  a  jast  man  as  well  as  an  affectionate  parent.  There  were 
peculiar  circumstances  which,  in  his  opinion  and  that  of  her  friends, 
made  it  judicious  for  her  to  postpone  a  return  to  her  husband's  home 
in  Louisiana. 


650  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

To  divert  her  mind  from  painful  thought,  her  father  advised  a  re 
newal  of  her  studies,  with  a  view  to  completing  her  education ;  and 
she  turned  to  her  old  text-books  —  sadly  and  listlessly  at  first,  after 
ward  with  new  energy  and  zeal  for  knowledge.  She  now  resumed  her 
writing  for  the  press,  and  became  a  regular  contributor  to  several 
periodicals.  Among  these  was  the  "  Literary  Crusader,"  published  by 
Mr.  John  Seals,  at  Penfield,  Georgia.  After  writing  for  this  paper  for 
two  years,  it  was  removed  to  Atlanta,  greatly  enlarged  and  improved, 
and  she  was  solicited  to  take  part  in  its  editorial  management.  She 
accepted  the  offer,  went  to  Atlanta,  and  entered  upon  her  new  duties 
with  the  ardor  and  energy  which  are  her  distinguishing  traits.  She 
succeeded  in  giving  to  the  "  Crusader  "  an  individuality  it  had  not 
before  possessed,  and  in  making  it  widely  and  popularly  known,  not 
only  throughout  the  South,  but  in  the  Middle  and  Northern  States. 

During  the  year  in  which  she  edited  the  "  Crusader  "  in  Atlanta, 
I  believe  that  Mrs.  Bryan  performed  more  literary  work  and  of  a  more 
varied  character  than  any  female  of  her  age  (twenty  years)  ever  ac 
complished  in  the  same  length  of  time.  The  expenses  of  removing 
the  "  Crusader  "  to  Atlanta,  of  purchasing  new  type  and  press,  etc., 
were  so  great  that  the  proprietor  did  not  consider  that  his  finances  jus 
tified  his  paying  for  contributions;  still  he  wished  to  make  his  paper 
interesting  and  to  have  it  contain  a  variety  of  original  reading-natter. 
Mrs.  Bryan  was  equal  to  this  emergency.  She  determined  to  me  best 
of  her  ability  to  supply  the  place  of  contributors.  She  called  in  play 
for  the  first  time  her  remarkable  versatility,  her  power  of  changing 
her  style  "  from  grave  to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe,"  and  she  filled  a 
page  of  the  "  Crusader "  every  week  with  the  required  viriety  of 
original  reading-matter  from  her  own  pen.  Every  number  contained 
one  or  more  columns  of  "editorial"  upon  subjects  of  presert  interest. 
Then  a  group,  of  sparkling  paragraphs,  local  or  critical  —  essays, 
thoughtful  or  humorous,  and  sometimes  scintillating  wLh  wit  —  a 
poem  —  a  sketch  or  story,  and  often  one  or  more  chapters  of  a  serial 
tale. 

In  addition  to  the  weekly  task  of  filling  so  many  columns  of  a 
large  literary  paper,  and  also  to  the  trouble  of  proof-reating,  selecting, 
and  other  duties  connected  with  her  office,  Mrs.  Bryan  :bund  time  to 
pursue,  at  intervals,  the  course  of  reading  and  study  sl:e  had  marked 
out  for  herself.  But  she  did  so  by  encroaching  largely  upon  the  hours 
allotted  to  rest.  Even  the  Sabbath  was  no  day  of  relaxation,  since  it 


MAEY    E.    BEYAN.  651 

brought  its  own  duties,  in  the  care  of  her  Bible  class,  of  her  younger 
band  of  Sunday-school  scholars,  and  in  an  unfailing  attendance  upon 
divine  service  in  the  Methodist  church,  of  which  she  was  a  faithful 
member. 

In  November  of  this  year,  she  was  invited  to  read  a  poem  at  the 
Commencement  of  College  Temple,  Newnan,  Georgia.  Her  poem 
was  an  eloquent  delineation  of  true  womanhood  —  its  sphere,  its  mis 
sion,  and  its  aspirations;  and  it  was  read  in  her  own  rich,  magnetic 
voice.  After  she  had  taken  her  seat,  she  was  recalled  and  compli 
mented  with  a  diploma  from  the  president  of  the  college. 

Before  the  close  of  the  year,  Mrs.  Bryan  felt  that  the  unremitting 
toil  was  telling  upon  her  health.  She  needed  rest,  and  returned  home, 
determined  to  write  less  than  she  had  been  doing.  Several  proposi 
tions  were  made  for  her  services  the  next  year.  She  accepted  the  offer 
of  Col.  James  Gardner,  proprietor  of  the  "  Field  and  Fireside,"  as 
being  not  only  most  liberal  in  salary,  but  most  generous  in  its  privi 
leges.  He  expressly  insisted  that  she  should  rest,  should  write  at  her 
leisure,  and  write  with  care  and  correction.  How  well  she  followed 
the  latter  suggestion,  was  shown  in  her  first  contributions  to  the 
"  Field  and  Fireside,"  the  noble  essay,  "  How  should  Women  Write," 
the  pathetic  sketch,  "  Cutting  Kobbie's  Hair,"  and  the  fine  poem,  "  The 
Hour  when  we  shall  Meet."  (The  sketch  and  poem  are  to  be  found  in 
Mary  Forrest's  "  Distinguished  Women  of  the  South.")  She  contrib 
uted  novelettes,  stories,  essays,  and  poems.  About  this  time  she  de 
cided  to  return  with  her  husband  to  Louisiana,  and  we  next  find  her  in 
her  own  quiet  home,  isolated  from  literary  society,  from  the  stimulus 
of  applause  and  encouragement,  and  from  those  influences  which 
quicken  the  energies  and  sharpen  the  mental  faculties.  Notwithstand 
ing  this,  she  completed  her  engagement  with  the  "Field  and  Fire 
side,"  and  entered  upon  a  new  year,  beginning  it  with  the  initial  chap 
ters  of  "  Haywood  Lodge."  This  is  a  beau-ideal  of  a  novel  —  "a 
striking  fiction/'  The  characters  are  as  distinctly  and  as  graphically 
drawn  as  any  in  "  Adam  Bede,"  or  "  Mill  on  the  Floss."  The  scenes 
are  sprightly  and  lifelike,  and  the  plot  one  of  intense  interest.  Mrs. 
Bryan  promised  a  sequel  to  this  novel — a  second  volume,  so  to  speak  — 
which  has  been  from  time  to  time  demanded  by  the  public,  but  is  not 
yet  forthcoming. 

When  she  commenced  her  second  engagement  with  the  "  Field  and 
Fireside,"  it  was  at  the  commencement  of  the  late  war.  Her  husband 


652  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

enlisted  in  the  service  of  his  country,  and  to  Mrs.  Bryan  was  left  the  super 
intendence  of  the  household  and  plantation.  With  these  domestic  duties 
she  had  little  leisure  for  writing,  yet  she  wrote  a  series  of  articles,  vig 
orous  in  style  and  caustic  in  their  satire,  denouncing  and  exposing  the 
system  of  extortion,  speculation,  and  fraud  which  was  undermining 
the  Southern  interest.  These  articles  appeared  in  the  parish  paper, 
having  a  local  circulation  only. 

When  the  war  ended,  Mr.  Bryan  had  only  honorable  scars  and  com 
parative  poverty.  In  order  to  contribute  her  mite  toward  rebuilding 
their  fallen  fortunes,  Mrs.  Bryan  accepted  the  editorship  of  the  "Semi- 
weekly  Times,"  published  in  Natchitoches.  She  removed  temporarily 
to  Natchitoches  for  the  purpose  of  superintending  the  paper  in  person, 
and  entered  upon  the  work  with  her  accustomed  energy  and  earnest 
ness.  She  was  now  required  to  try  her  versatile  powers  in  a  direction 
in  which  they  had  never  essayed.  The  "  Times  "  was  a  political  paper, 
and  Mrs.  Bryan's  leading  articles  were  required  by  its  proprietor  to  be 
discussions  of  the  grave  political  questions  agitating  the  public  mind. 
This  was  by  no  means  a  congenial  task,  but  none  would  have  guessed 
it  from  reading  the  bold  and  vigorous  "  leaders  "  which  appeared  twice 
a  week  in  the  columns  of  the  "  Times,"  or  the  pungent  paragraphs, 
the  witty  and  satirical  comments  upon  contemporary  opinions,  or 
upon  the  ludicrous  aspect  Qf  "  African  sovereignty." 

Her  work  was  attended  by  the  most  disheartening  drawbacks.  She 
wrote  under  the  disadvantages  of  ill  health,  of  sickness  in  her  family, 
and  of  the  necessity  of  devoting  much  of  her  time  to  the  care  of  three 
young  children  —  the  eldest  only  five  years  old.  In  spite  of  these 
adverse  circumstances,  she  furnished  to  the  "  Times,"  twice  a  week, 
not  only  the  required  columns  of  "editorial"  and  editorial  para 
graphs,  but  one  or  more  essays,  and  usually  a  sketch,  a  story,  or  a 
poem. 

Mrs.  Bryan's  stay  in  Natchitoches  was  one  of  misfortune,  and  it 
was  terminated  by  an  affliction  —  the  most  bitter  she  had  ever  been 
called  upon  to  endure  —  the  long,  painful  illness  and  death  of  her 
youngest  child  —  her  baby,  her  darling.  The  little  sufferer  (who  had 
been  a  bright  and  beautiful  boy)  was  suddenly  and  mysteriously 
afflicted,  and  lay  for  many  weeks  in  the  "death  in  life"  of  paraly-is. 
It  was  during  one  of  her  anguished  watches  by  that  bed  of  silent  suf 
fering  that  Mrs.  Bryan  wrote  the  poem  which  she  has  called  "  Mise 
rere."  During  the  illness  of  her  child,  Mrs.  Bryan  exerted  herself  to 


MARY    E.    BRYAN.  653 

continue  her  editorial  duties  —  writing  while  the  little  one  slept  in  her 
lap,  or  upon  the  bed,  beside  which  she  kept  her  unremitting  watch ; 
but  when  the  little  coffin  was  carried  out  from  the  room,  and  she  sat 
down  with  aching  heart  to  supply  the  remorseless  demand  for  "  copy," 
she  found  it  impossible  to  collect  her  thoughts.  The  reaction  had 
come;  the  long  strain  upon  her  feelings  and  energies  showed  its  effects, 
and  all  she  wrote  was  a  brief  adieu  to  the  patrons  of  the  paper'. 

She  returned  to  her  plantation  home,  but  continued  to  contribute  to 
the  "  Times."  In  1868,  she  went  on  a  visit  to  her  relatives  in  Florida, 
and  while  there  formed  an  engagement  with  "  Scott's  Magazine," 
(Atlanta.)  In  this  magazine  she  published  a  novel,  entitled  "  The 
Mystery  of  Cedar  Bay,"  which  will  appear  probably  in  book-form. 
This  serial  is  original  and  thrillingly  interesting. 

It  is  difficult  to  convey  an  adequate  idea  of  Mrs.  Bryan's  powers  by 
means  of  extracts,  owing  to  the  variety  of  style.  Ease  and  grace 
characterize  her  lighter  compositions,  force  and  vigor  distinguish  her 
graver  productions. 

Mrs.  Bryan  has -frequently  been  called  "the  most  gifted  female 
writer  which  the  South  has  produced."  She  is  certainly  the  most 
versatile.  It  is  in  her  power  to  make  herself  the  most  widely  known. 
To  do  this,  she  must  show  more  appreciation  of  her  own  powers  —  she 
must  concentrate  her  energies  upon  some  one  work. 


ANACKEON. 

Yon  sea-like  slope  of  darkening  pines 

Is  surging  with  the  tempest's  power, 
And  not  one  star  of  promise  shines 

Upon  the  twilight  hour; 
With  wailing  sounds  the  blast  is  rife, 

And  wilder  yet  the  echoes  roll 
Up  from  the  scenes  where  want  and  strife 

Convulse  the  human  soul. 
'Tis  madness  rules  the  fateful  hour; 
Let  me  forget  its  fearful  power; 
Drop  low  the  curtains  of  my  room, 
And  in  the  green  and  purple  gloom 
Lose  sight  of  angry  men  and  stormy  skies, 
Gazing,  Anacreon,  on  thy  splendid  eyes. 


654  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

My  grand  old  Greek  I  far  back  in  time 

Thy  glorious  birth-hour  lies ; 
Thy  shade  has  heard  the  tread  sublime 

Of  passing  centuries. 
And  yet  the  soul  that  thrilled  thy  lyre 

Has  power  to  charm  us  still, 
And  with  its  vivid  light  and  fire 

Our  duller  spirits  fill. 
Breathe  on  me,  spirit  rare  and  fine, 
Buoyant  with  energy  divine : 
The  light  and  joy  of  other  days 
Live  in  those  blue  eyes'  dazzling  rays ; 
They  lift  my  soul  from  its  confining  cage, 
The  barriers  of  this  dull  and  sordid  age. 

I  dream  I  am  a  girl  of  Greece, 

With  pliant  shape  and  foam-white  arms, 
And  locks  that  fall  in  bright  release 

To  veil  my  bosom's  charms. 
The  skies  of  Greece  above  me  bend  — 

The  ^Egean  winds  are  in  my  hair ; 
I  hear  gay  songs,  and  shoutings  send 

Their  music  on  the  air. 
I  see  a  bright  procession  pass  — 
The  girls  throw  garlands  on  the  grass  — 
And,  crowned  with  myrtle  and  with  bay, 
I  see  thee  pass  that  flowery  way, 
While  swim  before  me  smiling  fields  and  skies, 
Dimmed  by  a  glance  of  thy  resplendent  eyes. 

Prince  of  the  Lyre !  thy  locks  are  white 

As  Blanc's  untrodden  snow; 
But,  quenchless  in  their  fire  and  light, 

Thy  blue  eye  beams  below, 
And  well  the  myrtle  gleams  among 

Thy  bays,  like  stars  of  truth ; 
The  poet's  soul  is  ever  young  — 

His  is  immortal  youth. 
He  dwells  within  that  border-land 
Where  innocence  and  passion  stand  — 
Ardent,  yet  pure,  clasped  hand  in  hand  — 
And  years  but  add  a  richer  grace, 
A  higher  charm  to  mind  and  face, 
While  youth  and  beauty  that  his  dreams  eclipse, 
Bend  to  the  magic  of  his  eyes  and  lips. 


MARY    E.    BRYAN.  655 

Oh !  heart  of  love  and  soul  of  fire  I 

My  spirit  bows  to  thee ; 
Type  of  the  ideals  that  inspire 

My  dreams  eternally, 
I  'd  be  a  slave  to  such  as  thou, 

And  deem  myself  a  queen, 
If  sometimes  to  my  kneeling  brow 

Those  perfect  lips  might  lean. 
High  hopes  and  aims  within  my  breast 
Would  spring  from  their  despairing  rest, 
And  the  wild  energies  that  sleep 
Like  prisoned  genii  might  out  leap, 
And  bid  my  name  among  th'  immortal  shine, 
If  fame,  to  me,  could  mean  such  love  as  thine. 


MISEEEEE. 

Alone  with  night  and  silence,  and  those  strange, 
Those  bright,  unseeing,  sleepless  eyes,  whose  depth 
I  have  searched  vainly,  weary  days  and  nights, 
For  some  sweet  gleam  of  consciousness,  some  ray 
Of  tender  recognition  to  break  forth  — 
Sudden  and  starlike  —  from  the  vacant  cloud. 
It  does  not  come;  the  sweet  soul  that  looked  forth 
From  those  deep  eyes  wanders  mysteriously 
In  some  dim  land  that  borders  upon  death, 
And  I  sit  watching,  after  many  days. 
With  the  tears  dried  upon  my  pallid  cheeks, 
Their  fountains  dried  within  my  hopeless  heart, 
Waiting  for  death  to  make  me  desolate. 

The  roses  of  a  lovely  May  breathe  out 

Their  souls  of  fragrance  underneath  the  moon  ; 

The  wind  comes  down  from  the  wild  grove  of  pines, 

Vocal  with  wordless  mysteries ;  I  see 

Its  fingers  toying  with  yon  delicate  leaves, 

Touched  with  faint  silver  by  the  midnight  moon ; 

I  see  the  dew-gleam  on  the  tender  grass, 

The  thousand  starry  sentinels  that  watch 

Upon  the  battlements  of  heaven ;  I  see 

All  these,  as  if  I  saw  not ;  for  those  eyes 

Haunt  me  forever,  turn  upon  me  still, 

Through  the  blank  darkness  made  by  clasping  hands, 


056  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

By  blinding  tears,  and  clouds  of  falling  hair, 
A-  with  bowed  head  I  strive  to  shut  the  sight 
From  the  o'ertortured  sense. 

Oh !  what  to  me 

Is  it  how  many  flowers  the  TMay  shall  blow 
Into  young  bloom  with  her  sweet  breath,  since  I 
Must  lay  mine  low  beneath  the  chilly  sod, 
And  watch  the  grass  grow  green  between  my  heart 
And  the  sweet  face  I  cradled  on  my  breast? 
What  is  it  to  me  how  many  singing  larks 
The  morn  may  send  to  gild  their  soaring  wings 
With  the  unrisen  sun?  the  voice  that  was 
The  sweetest  under  heaven  to  me  is  still ! 
I  would  not  turn  from  the  pale  lips,  whereon 
Cruel  paralysis  —  that  death  in  life  — 
Has  laid  his  numbing  seal,  to  list  the  strains 
The  sirens  sang  across  the  classic  seas. 

My  child,  my  child !  my  beautiful,  bright  boy  I 

In  whose  large  eyes  I  dreamed  that  genius  slept; 

For  whose  broad  brow  my  fancy  twined  the  bays 

That  I  had  ceased  to  strive  for ;  my  fair  flower, 

That  came  when  life  seemed  the  most  desolate, 

And  shed  a  brightness  round  its  lonely  waste, 

And  weaned  the  heart  from  the  wild  love  of  death, 

And  rest,  and  deep  forgetfulness ;  thy  lip, 

Ere  it  could  speak,  quivered  in  sympathy 

With  my  hot  tears  that  fell  upon  thy  face ; 

Thy  baby  hand  lay  softly  on  my  heart 

Like  a  charmed  flower,  and  soothed  its  wild  unrest. 

What  hopes  have  I  not  built  for  thee?  what  dreams 

Of  future  greatness  has  my  fancy  reared, 

Kneeling  beside  thy  cradle,  stroking  back 

The  locks  from  thy  broad  temples? 

Well  I  knew 

That  my  own  life  had  failed ;  that  the  bright  hopes 
And  untamed  aspirations  of  my  youth, 
Met  by  the  storm  of  fate,  had  drooped  their  wing, 
And  fallen  back,  cold  and  dying,  to  the  heart 
That  was  their  nest.    Alas!  I  felt  the  cord 
Of  iron  circumstance  upon  my  life, 
And  knew  that  woman's  sorrowful  fate  was  mine; 
That  the  wild  energies  that  thrilled  my  being 


MARY    E.    BRYAN.  657 

Must  throb  themselves  to  silence;  that  with  me 
Ambition  must  mean  only  grief;  but  thou, 
No  robes  of  womanhood  could  trip  thy  steps 
Upon  the  mountain-paths  of  fame,  my  child ; 
Thou  couldst  be  free  and  fearless ;  thou  mightst  win 
The  goal  I  could  not  touch ;  mightst  boldly  speak 
The  truths  I  dared  not  utter. 

Ay,  I  dreamed 

Thy  voice  might  thrill  the  great  soul  of  the  world ; 
And  strong  for  truth,  and  brave  for  truth,  might  lead, 
With  clarion  peal,  the  march  of  Eight,  and  bid 
Hoary  Oppression  tremble  on  his  throne  — 
And  Wrong,  and  Bigotry,  and  Hatred  quail 
Before  its  fearless  utterance;  that  should  drown 
The  hiss  of  malice,  and  the  carping  cry 
Of  Envy  and  weak  Fear. 

So  I  have  dreamed, 

When  hope  and  love  beat  time  within  my  breast, 
And  ideal  visions  passed  with  prophecies 
In  their  deep  eyes.     Yet  more;  when  I  beheld 
The  fair  land  of  my  love  laid  low,  and  made 
A  land  of  graves  and  woful  memories  — 
A  slaved  and  conquered  land,  that  scarcely  dares 
To  quiver  underneath  th'  oppressor's  heel  — 
I  did  not  weep ;  for  what  avail  were  tears, 
E'en  from  the  depths  of  a  "  divine  despair," 
Before  such  wrong,  such  woe,  such  wretchedness, 
Such  desolation?     So  I  did  not  weep. 
A  woman's  tears  fit  only  to  keep  warm 
And  moist  the  sod  of  graves ;  I  only  knelt, 
With  beating  heart  and  burning  cheek,  above 
The  fair  child  of  my  hopes,  and  thought  to  breathe 
And  mould  into  his  unformed  being  my  own 
Deep  love,  and  pity,  and  devotedness, 
And  passionate  sense  of  wrong.     In  time,  they  might 
Produce  the  fruits  I  should  not  see:  the  soul 
That  looked  forth  radiantly  from  the  clear  eyes, 
The  hand  that  lay  so  flower-like  within  mine, 
Might  aid  to  win  his  land's  deliverance, 
And  break  the  thraldom  his  free  soul  would  scorn. 

Alas!  to-night  how  vain  and  wild  they  seem  — 
Those  earthly  visions  —  those  proud  hopes  and  dreams  —  ; 
10 


658  SOUTHLAND   W  RITER8. 

For  thcc,  my  darling,  lying  like  a  flower, 

The  flames  have  scathed  in  passing,  and  have  left 

Blighted  and  dying,  —  vain  and  wild  they  seem, 

As  kneeling  thus,  I  hold  in  mine  that  hand 

My  fancy  clothed  with  manhood's  strength  and  grace, 

Now  pale  and  paralyzed,  while  the  bright  mind 

That  was  my  joy  and  pride,  alas !  they  say, 

It  will  not  shine  again  in  the  sweet  face, 

And  give  its  radiance  to  the  eyes  I  loved ; 

That  e'en  if  life  creeps  back,  and  the  fell  fiend 

Of  fever  quits  his  victim,  that  the  mind 

Will  never  more  leap  from  the  eyes  in  light, 

But  stay  within  its  cell,  the  brain,  a  dim 

Aud  dreaming  prisoner. 

Oh!  I  dare  not  dwell 

Upon  the  thought ;  better  for  thee  and  me 
Were  death,  my  darling ;  better  this  dear  head         » 
Were  lain  beneath  the  shadows  of  the  pines 
That  oversweep  yon  City  of  the  Dead. 
And  thus  I  give  thee  up,  my  child,  my  life, 
To  the  great  God  who  lent  thee.    Go,  and  be 
Tended  by  angels  in  the  land  where  pain 
Comes  not  to  rack  the  brain ;  from  angel  lips 
Of  loveliest  music,  angel  eyes  and  brows, 
Divinely  calm  with  love,  and  bright  with  thought, 
Learn  the  deep  lore  of  heaven,  and  forget 
The  brief  and  pain-fraught  life  that  only  saw 
The  roses  of  one  summer  fade  away. 


BY  THE  SEA. 

Once  more,  once  more 
Beneath  the  golden  skies  I  loved  so  well, 
Listening  once  more  to  the  blue  billows'  swell 

Upon  the  sandy  shore  — 

The  blue,  bright  waves,  that  in  the  sunlight  shine 
Through  vistas  of  the  feathery  palm  and  pine. 

Land  of  my  love,  once  more 
Thy  beauty  is  around  me  :  on  my  brow 
Thy  pine-trees  fling  their  shifting  shadows  now, 

And  when  the  day-beams  pour 


MARY    E.    BRYAN.  659 

Across  the  cloud,. my  steed's  swift  gallop  shakes 
The  scarlet  berries  in  thy  lonely  brakes. 

And  when  the  noon  is  high, 
I  see  the  yellowing  lime  and  orange  swinging 
On  branches  where  the  wild  bird's  notes  are  ringing, 

While  all  neglected  lie 
The  purple  figs  dropped  in  the  plumy  grass, 
The  wild  grapes  hanging  where  cool  waters  pass. 

And  when  the  planets  burn, 
The  fairest  of  the  long-haired  Naiad  daughters 
Holds  upward,  through  her  lake's  pellucid  waters, 

The  water-lily's  urn, 

And  floats  its  broad,  green  leaf  upon  the  tide, 
To  form  an  isle,  where  fairies  might  abide. 

Yet  strange  to  me  they  seem  — 
These  glories  of  my  native  tropic  clime; 
No  more  its  silver-flowing  waters  rhyme 

With  my  own  spirit's  dream. 
The  charm  has  vanished,  broken  is  the  spell ; 
And  in  the  woods  and  in  the  hollow  dell 
Strange  echoes  seem  to  shape  the  word  farewell. 

I  would  rebind  the  spell 
About  my  brow ;  fling  off  the  chain  of  years. 
Say,  what  should  check  me  ?    Why  should  time  and  tears 

The  spirit  sear  or  quell  ? 

Snatch  me  a  wreath  from  yonder  blooming  vine ! 
Here  let  me  lie,  where  morning-glories  twine, 
And  round  me  call  my  olden  dreams  divine. 

Vain !  vain  !  the  broken  spell 
Can  never  be  renewed ;  the  vanished  charm 
I  've  vainly  sought  —  in  jessamines  breathing  warm  ; 

In  the  magnolia's  bell ; 
In  deep  ravines,  where  mystic  waters  pour 
Through  the  cleft  earth,  and  reappear  no  more. 

But  yesternight  I  stole 
Dowrn  to  the  sea  —  down  to  the  lonely  sea, 
WThere  but  the  starlight  shone  mysteriously ; 

And  there,  my  listening  soul 
Heard,  through  the  silence,  every  solemn  wave 
Speak,  in  deep,  mournful  whispers  of  a  grave. 


660  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

And  now  I  know  that  here, 
Even  here  —  across  the  glory  and  the  bloom  — 
There  falls  the  shadow  of  that  little  tomb  — 

The  grave  they  made  last  year, 
Hiding  beneath  the  sodden  earth  forlorn 
The  flower  of  love,  my  desolate  life  had  borne. 

Oh !  not  for  me,  for  me, 
Does  the  pale  Naiad  hold  her  lily-urn, 
And  not  for  me  the  starry  jessamines  burn  ; 

Only  the  dreary  sea 

Brings  me  a  message  —  on  each  solemn  wave 
Bearing  the  mournful  story  of  a  grave. 


THE  FATAL  BRACELET. 

It  wanted  a  half-hour  to  midnight.  The  marriage  ceremony  had  long 
been  over,  and  the  bride  had  been  gayest  among  her  guests.  There  was  a 
pause  in  the  dance  just  now.  Vane  had  gone  below  —  called  down  upon 
some  business  that  would  not  wait  even  for  bridal  festivities.  Flushed  and 
sparkling,  Coralyn  stood  at  a  retired  window  beside  her  partner,  resting  from 
the  exercise  of  the  dance.  The  night  was  warm,  and  her  companion  prof 
fered  to  go  for  a  glass  of  iced  water.  When  he  had  quitted  her  side,  she 
leaned  from  the  window,  drinking  in  the  fresh  air,  whose  balm  cooled  the 
hot  glow  upon  her  cheeks,  and  quieted  the  feverish  unrest  of  her  heart.  She 
did  not  hear  a  stealthy  step  approach  her ;  she  had  no  warning  of  the  prox 
imity  of  danger,  until  a  voice  said  in  her  ear :  "  I  am  late  with  my  congratu 
lations  for  such  an  old  friend." 

She  turned  instantly,  and  confronted  him  face  to  face.  It  was  he !  He 
was  not  dead.  It  was  the  dark,  handsome  face  of  the  picture  —  darker  and 
more  sinister  than  ever.  Had  the  earth  opened  at  her  feet,  she  could  not 
have  been  more  stunned,  more  stupefied  —  could  not  have  grown  whiter,  or 
felt  her  brain  reel  with  more  deadly  sickness. 

"  Do  not  faint ! "  he  whispered,  with  a  scornful  smile  half  denned  on  his 
full  lips.  "  What  would  be  thought  ?  " 

The  necessity  for  self-control  brought  back  consciousness  and  strength. 
She  glanced  around  —  she  was  not  observed. 

"  I  thought  —  "  she  faltered. 

"  That  I  was  dead.  Very  distressing  thought,  no  doubt,  to  you.  Happy 
to  relieve  your  mind  by  affording  you  ocular  proof  of  my  existence.  Prob 
ably,  you  thought  that  death  alone  should  have  kept  me  away  from  your 
arms.  Really,  you  must  blame  the  importunities  of  friends,  which  it  wu* 
out  of  my  power  to  resist.  They  kindly  obliged  me  to  accept  the  privilege 


MARY    E.    BRYAN.  661 

of  their  residence  and  the  society  of  their  select  guests,  and  insisted  so  stren 
uously  upon  my  partaking  of  their  hospitality  for  the  term  of  my  natural 
life,  that  it  was  only  by  stratagem  and  the  devil's  help  that  I  at  last  got  rid 
of  the  burden  of  their  excessive  kindness.  See ;  I  have  brought  away  a 
token  of  their  affection."  And  the  escaped  convict  unfastened  his  jewelled 
sleeve-button,  and  rolling  back  his  sleeve  a  little  way,  showed  the  deep  scars 
of  handcuffs  on  his  wrist.  He  smiled  as  he  saw  her  shudder.  Then,  as  he 
quietly  buttoned  his  cuff  again,  the  partner  of  Coralyn  returned  with  the 
glass  of  water.  She  would  have  sprung  forward  eagerly  to  his  side,  but  a 
glance  from  the  eyes  she  feared,  restrained  her.  The  dark  stranger  stepped 
gracefully  forward. 

"  Permit  me,"  he  said,  taking  the  glass  from  the  gentleman  with  bland 
politeness,  and  placing  it  in  her  hand. 

It  would  have  fallen  from  her  cold  fingers,  but  he  held  it,  while  she  drained 
the  last  crystal  drop.  The  glass  was  returned  to  the  gentleman.  He  was 
her  husband's  dearest  friend.  He  would  have  remained  by  her  side,  had  he 
seen  or  interpreted  the  mute,  imploring  look  she  cast  upon  him.  He  did  not 
see  it.  He  turned  away,  and  left  her  with  the  man,  whose  easy  familiarity 
seemed  to  betoken  him  an  old  friend. 

She  cast  her  eyes  over  the  crowd  —  fearing  and  yet  blindly  wishing  to  see 
her  husband's  tall  figure,  and  meet  his  eyes  in  search  of  her.  Yet  how 
could  he  help  her  ?  What  would  she  dare  to  say  to  him  ?  If  he  knew  all, 
would  he  not  fling  her  from  him  in  horror  ?  Oh  !  what  should  she  do  ?  what 
would  become  of  her  ?  Why  had  she  ever  deceived  him  and  yielded  to  the 
temptation  of  securing  herself  within  the  safe,  sweet  shelter  of  home  and 
love?  What  right  had  she  to  home  or  love?  —  she  —  she  —  she  dared  not 
whisper  it  to  herself.  It  was  horrible  —  horrible !  True,  she  had  been  so 
young,  so  utterly  ignorant ;  and  then  -that  cruel,  terrible  Margery  —  and 
her  son  —  the  fiendish  being  who  stood  now  gloating  upon  her  beauty  and 
her  terror.  Could  it  be  she  had  ever  loved  him  —  had  trembled  and  blushed 
when  he  spoke  to  her  —  had  watched  him  (the  first  young  man  she  had  ever 
seen)  with  a  fearful,  fascinated  gaze,  and  a  feeling  of  mingled  abhorrence 
and  admiration  ? 

Why  had  he  come  here  to-night?  What  would  he  dare  to  tell  of  her  past 
life,  when  it  must  involve  an  exposure  of  himself —  he,  the  escaped  felon, 
doubtless  with  a  price  upon  his  head  ?  Did  he  read  the  rapid  thoughts  that 
rushed  through  her  brain  ?  He  stood  there,  watching  her  with  folded  arms, 
and  a  smile  on  his  lips.  His  eyes  drank  in  her  beauty,  and  burned  upon  her 
with  the  blended  fire  of  love  and  hate.  The  band  began  playing  a  waltz  — 
the  dancers  gathered  upon  the  floor.  "Let  us  waltz,"  he  said  suddenly, 
proffering  his  hand.  She  made  an  involuntary  gesture  of  loathing,  and  her 
lips  syllabled  a  refusal.  His  dark  brow  grew  blacker  as  he  saw  the  abhor 
rence  she  could  not  conceal.  His  eyes  flashed  luridly ;  he  bent  down  and 
whispered  a  word  in  her  ear.  She  grew  livid  to  the  lips ;  her  eyes  fell,  her 


662  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

hands  dropped  at  her  side.  He  watched  her  with  his  shining,  serpent  eyes 
and  half-formed  smile. 

"Shall  we  waltz  now?  "  he  asked  gayly ;  and  passing  his  arm  around  her 
waist,  they  floated  into  the  centre  of  the  room  among  the  dancers. 

The  music  was  at  first  slow  and  soft.  As  they  swam  through  its  languid 
mazes,  he  kept  his  basilisk  eyes  fixed  upon  her. 

"  You  wear  my  gift,"  he  said,  tightening  his  grasp  upon  her  wrist  that  was 
circled  by  the  coiled  serpent. 

"  Yours  ?  "  she  uttered.     "  Nurse  Margery's  —  " 

"  No ;  mine.  The  note  was  only  a  ruse  to  make  sure  of  your  wearing  the 
bracelet.  Margery  is  dead." 

"Dead?" 

"  Dead  —  starved  to  death  in  a  gutter,  thanks  to  the  gratitude  of  her  fos 
ter-child."  He  hissed  out  the  words  between  his  teeth.  His  lips  parted,  and 
the  white,  carnivorous  teeth  shone  beneath  the  black  moustache  like  the 
teeth  of  a  wild  beast. 

"  Her  foster-child,"  he  continued,  "  that  she  fed  when  a  pauper,  and  who, 
when  her  heirship  was  discovered,  drove  her  off  to  starve." 

"  Not  I,  not  I  —  it  was  my  aunt.     God  forgive  me,  I  had  not  courage  —  " 

"  Hush  speaking  of  God.  What  is  God  to  us?  My  mother  will  not  for 
give.  She  will  torture  you  for  it  in  the  regions  of  the  damned." 

She  cowered  under  the  dark  words  and  the  threatening  brow  and  eyes. 
What  a  mockery  it  was  to  be  whirling  round  to  the  quickening  music,  flower- 
crowned  and  festally  arrayed,  while  her  spirit  shrank  within  her  through 
terrible  shame,  and  her  brain  reeled  with  dizzy  torture. 

"  And  you  ?  "  she  found  voice  to  say  ;  "  why  are  you  here  to-night  ?  " 

"  To  crush  a  worm  that  has  dared  to  sting  me.  Ha !  did  you  think  I  could 
be  deceived  and  trifled  with,  without  my  revenge?  " 

As  he  spoke,  bending  his  lips  so  close  to  hers  that  the  fiery  breath  was  on 
her  cheek,  he  grasped  the  serpent-bound  arm  so  tightly,  that  she  uttered  a 
faint  exclamation.  It  was  drowned  by  the  music,  that  now  rose  wilder  and 
faster,  while  the  dancers  whirled  in  rapid  circles  over  the  floor,  that  shook 
witli  the  beating  of  their  feet. 

"  Scream,"  he  whispered ;  "  draw  the  crowd  around  you.  I  will  then  have 
a  fine  opportunity  of  explaining  old  matters." 

"  Have  mercy,"  she  moaned,  as  he  whirled  her  relentlessly  around. 
"  Loose  your  grasp  upon  my  arm.  The  bracelet  is  piercing  my  flesh.  I  am 
suffering  intensely." 

"  It  is  the  cobra's  tooth,"  he  answered,  with  the  malignant  smile  of  a  fiend. 
"  The  bracelet  is  bewitched.  My  touch  endues  it  with  life  and  venom.  Its 
head  is  lifted  no  longer ;  the  blow  is  struck  ;  the  fangs  are  in  your  flesh." 

"  O  God !  I  am  ill.     I  am  in  terrible  pain  !  in  mercy  let  me  stop !  " 

But  round  and  round  -he  whirled  her  —  supporting  her  slender  figure 
almost  wholly  by  his  muscular  arm. 


MARY    E.    BRYAN.  663 

"  Spare  me !  spare  me ! "  she  groaned.     "  In  mercy,  in  mercy  ! " 

"  Did  you  think  of  mercy  when  you  broke  your  faith  with  me  ?  —  taught 
yourself  to  scorn  and  hate  me ;  drove  my  old  mother,  who  had  nursed  you, 
from  your  presence,  and  deceived  an  honorable  man  into  taking  you  as  his 
wife  —  you,  a  wife!  ha!  ha!  impostor!  I  would  have  found  my  sweetest 
revenge  by  exposing  all  —  Holding  you  up  to  his  scorn  and  the  contempt  of 
the  world  you  love  so  well ;  but  I  look  to  my  own  safety.  I  am  not  ready  to 
swing  just  yet,  or  to  go  back  to  that  devil's  hole  of  punishment.  I  have 
taken  a  safer  mode  to  secure  my  revenge." 

"  O  God !  I  suffer,  I  suffer !  " 

Her  head  fell  back  heavily  against  him. 

"  Water !  "  he  cried,  "a  lady  has  fainted." 

"  She  has  fainted !  the  bride  has  fainted  !  "  repeated  a  score  of  voices,  and 
the  throng  pressed  around  her  in  helpless  bewilderment. 

Vane  heard  the  words,  as  he  came  bounding  up  the  steps. 

He  strode  into  the  room.  The  crowd  made  way  as  he  came.  He  took 
her  into  his  arms.  He  flung  back  the  rich  hair  until  it  swept  rippling  to 
the  floor.  He  called  her  by  all  the  sweet,  endearing  names  of  love,  as  ho 
applied  one  restorative  after  another.  But  there  came  no  sign  of  life.  The 
lips  were  closely  crushed  together,  and  lurid  circles  were  darkening  under 
the  eyes. 

"  A  physician  !  "  he  cried  huskily.  One  stood  beside  him  now  —  holding 
the  slender  wrist,  which  the  serpent  bracelet  no  longer  clasped.  He  knelt 
down  and  examined  her  attentively.  He  was  a  man  of  science  and  experi 
ence —  long  a  sojourner  in  Eastern  lands. 

"  It  is  death,"  he  said  solemnly. 

Vane  was  speechless.  They  took  her  from  him  to  another  room,  and  he 
followed  like  a  child.  As  the  body  was  borne  past  the  physician,  he  pointed 
to  the  livid  spots  gathering  upon  the  marble  of  the  breast,  arms,  and  fore 
head,  and  said :  "  If  this  were  in  the  East,  I  should  swear  that  she  died 
from  the  bite  of  the  cobra  da  Capelli."' 

And  where  was  the  murderer  ?  —  where  was  he  with  that  fatal  bracelet, 
with  its  concealed  spring  and  its  slender,  poisoned  blade  —  dipped  in  the 
poison  of  the  cobra  —  the  speediest  and  deadliest  ? 

No  one  knew.  He  had  disappeared  in  the  confusion  of  the  crowd. 
Only  one  suspected  him  of  being  a  murderer. 

The  next  day  the  civil  authorities  searched  the  neighborhood  for  an  es 
caped  convict  —  a  desperate  felon,  committed  for  life.  They  went  away 
without  finding  him ;  but  some  days  afterward,  a  party  of  hunters  in  the 
mountains  saw  the  vultures  gathered  around  something  at  the  foot  of  the 
precipice.  They  reached  the  place  by  a  circuitous  path,  and  found  the  body 
of  a  human  being  :  the  wrists  and  ankles  were  scarred  as  if  by  heavy  irons, 
the  clothing  was  rich,  and  in  the  pocket  of  the^coat  was  found  a  curious 
bracelet  of  gold  —  in  semblance  a  cobra  serpent,  in  the  attitude  of  striking, 


664  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

with  eyes  of  emeralds  and  hood  studded  with  rubies  ;  on  touching  a  secret 
spring,  it  was  found  that  the  cobra's  head  sprang  suddenly  forward,  and  a 
tiny  blade  leaped  out  from  its  jaws  ! 

"  Do  not  touch  it,"  said  the  physician.     "  It  has  been  dipped  in  the  poison 
of  the  cobra." 


HOW  SHOULD  WOMEN  WRITE? 

The  idea  of  women  writing  books  I  There  were  no  prophets  in  the  days 
of  King  John  to  predict  an  event  so  far  removed  from  probability.  The 
women  of  the  household  sat  by  their  distaffs,  or  toiled  in  the  fields,  or  busied 
themselves  in  roasting  and  brewing  for  their  guzzling  lords.  If  ever  a  poetic 
vision  or  a  half-defined  thought  floated  through  their  minds,  they  sang  it 
out  to  their  busy  wheels,  or  murmured  it  in  rude  sentences  to  lull  the  babies 
upon  their  bosoms,  or  silently  wove  it  into  their  lives  to  manifest  itself  in 
patient  love  and  gentleness.  And  it  was  all  as  it  should  have  been ;  there 
was  need  for  nothing  more.  Physical  labor  was  then  all  that  was  required 
of  woman ;  and  to  "  act  well  her  part,"  meant  but  to  perform  the  domestic 
duties  which  were  given  her.  Life  was  less  complex  then  than  now  —  the 
intellectual  part  of  man's  twofold  nature  being  but  unequally  developed, 
while  the  absence  of  labor-saving  implements  demanded  a  greater  amount 
of  manual  toil  from  men  as  well  as  from  women. 

It  is  different  now.  Modern  ingenuity  and  Protean  appliances  of  ma 
chinery  have  lessened  the  necessity  of  actual  physical  labor ;  and,  in  the 
constant  progress  of  the  human  race,  new  fields  have  been  opened,  and  new 
social  needs  and  requirements  are  calling  for  workers  in  other  and  higher 
departments. 

There  is  a  cry  now  for  intellectual  food  through  the  length  and  breadth  of 
the  land.  The  old  oracles  of  the  past,  the  mummied  literary  remains  of  a 
dead  age,  will  not  satisfy  a  generation  that  is  pressing  so  vigorously  forward. 
They  want  books  imbued  with  the  strong  vitality  and  energy  of  the  present. 
And  as  it  is  a  moving,  hurrying,  changing  time,  with  new  influences  and 
opinions  constantly  rising  like  stars  above  the  horizon,  men  want  books  to 
keep  pace  with  their  progress  —  nay,  to  go  before  and  guide  them,  as  the 
pillar  of  fire  and  cloud  did  the  Israelites  in  the  desert.  So  they  want  books 
for  every  year,  for  every  month  —  mirrors  to  "catch  the  manners  living  as 
they  rise,"  lenses  to  concentrate  the  rays  of  the  new  stars  that  dawn  upon 
them. 

There  is  a  call  for  workers ;  and  woman,  true  to  her  mission  as  the  help 
meet  for  man,  steps  forward  to  take  her  part  in  the  intellectual  labor,  as  she 
did  when  only  manual  toil  was  required  :it  her  hands.  The  pen  has  become 
the  mighty  instrument  of  reform  and  rebuke ;  the  press  is  the  teacher  and 
the  preacher  of  the  world ;  and  it  is  not  only  the  privilege,  but  the  duty  of 


MARY    E.    BRYAN.  665 

woman  to  aid  in  extending  this  influence  of  letters,  and  in  supplying  the 
intellectual  demands  of  society,  when  she  has  been  endowed  with  the  power. 
Let  her  assure  herself  that  she  has  been  called  to  the  task,  and  then  grasp 
her  pen  firmly,  with  the  stimulating  consciousness  that  she  is  performing  the 
work  assigned  to  her. 

Thus  is  apparent  what  has  been  gradually  admitted,  that  it  is  woman's 
duty  to  write  —  but  how  and  what?  This  is  yet  a  mooted  question.  Men, 
after  much  demur  and  hesitation,  have  given  women  liberty  to  write ;  but 
they  cannot  yet  consent  to  allow  them  full  freedom.  They  may  flutter  out 
of  the  cage,  but  it  must  be  with  clipped  wings ;  they  may  hop  about  the 
smooth-shaven  lawn,  but  must,  on  no  account,  fly.  With  metaphysics 
they  have  nothing  to  do ;  it  is  too  deep  a  sea  for  their  lead  to  sound ;  nor 
must  they  grapple  with  those  great  social  and  moral  problems  with  which 
every  strong  soul  is  now  wrestling.  They  must  not  go  beyond  the  surface 
of  life,  lest  they  should  stir  the  impure  sediment  that  lurks  beneath.  They 
may  whiten  the  outside  of  the  sepulchre,  but  must  not  soil  their  kidded 
hands  by  essaying  to  cleanse  the  inside  of  its  rottenness  and  dead  men's 
bones. 

Nature,  indeed,  is  given  them  to  fustianize  over,  and  religion  allowed 
them  as  their  chief  capital  —  the  orthodox  religion,  that  says  its  prayers  out 
of  a  prayer-book,  and  goes  to  church  on  Sabbaths ;  but  on  no  account  the 
higher,  truer  religion,  that,  despising  cant  and  hypocrisy,  and  scorning 
forms  and  conventionalisms,  seeks  to  cure,  not  to  cloak  the  plague-spots  of 
society  —  the  self-forgetting,  self-abnegating  religion  that  shrinks  not  from 
following  in  the  steps  of  Christ,  that  curls  not  its  lip  at  the  touch  of  poverty 
and  shame,  nor  fears  to  call  crime  by  its  right  name,  though  it  wear  a  gilded 
mask,  nor  to  cry  out  earnestly  and  bravely,  "Away  with  it!  away  with  it!" 
No!  not  such  religion  as  this.  It  is  unfeminine ;  women  have  no  business 
with  it  whatever,  though  they  may  ring  changes  as  often  as  they  please 
upon  the  "crowns  of  gold,"  the  "jasper  walls,"  and  "seraph  harps." 

Having  prescribed  these  bounds  to  the  female  pen,  men  are  the  first  to 
condemn  her  efforts  as  tame  and  commonplace,  because  they  lack  earnest 
ness  and  strength. 

If  she  writes  of  birds,  of  flowers,  sunshine,  and  id  omne  genus,  as  did  Amelia 
\Velby,  noses  are  elevated  superbly,  and  the  effusions  are  said  to  smack  of 
bread  and  butter. 

If  love,  religion,  and  domestic  obligations  are  her  theme,  as  with  Mrs. 
Hentz,  "  namby-pamby  "  is  the  word  contemptuously  applied  to  her  produc 
tions.  If,  like  Mrs.  Southworth,  she  reproduces  Mrs.  KadclifFe  in  her  possi 
bility —  scorning  romances,  her  nonsensical  clap- trap  is  said  to  be  "beneath 
criticism ; "  and  if,  with  Patty  Pepper,  she  gossips  harmlessly  of  fashions 
and  fashionables,  of  the  opera  and  Laura  Keene's,  of  watering-places,  lec 
tures,  and  a  railroad  trip,  she  is  "pish"-ed  aside  as  silly  and  childish ;  while 
those  who  seek  to  go  beyond  the  boundary-line  are  put  down  with  the  stigma 


6G6  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

of  " strong-minded"  Fanny  Fern,  who,  though  actuated  by  no  fixed  pur 
pose,  was  yet  more  earnest  than  the  majority  of  her  sisterhood,  heard  tin- 
word  hissed  in  her  ears  whenever  she  essayed  to  strike  a  blow  at  the  root  of 
social  sin  and  inconsistency,  and  had  whatever  there  was  of  noble  and  phi 
lanthropic  impulse  in  her  nature  annihilated  by  the  epithets  of  "  bold  "  and 
"  indelicate,"  which  were  hurled  at  her  like  poisoned  arrows. 

It  will  not  do.  Such  dallying  with  surface-bubbles,  as  we  find  in  much 
of  our  periodical  literature,  might  have  sufficed  for  another  age,  but  not  for 
this.  We  want  a  deeper  troubling  of  the  waters,  that  we  may  go  down  into 
the  pool  and  be  healed.  It  is  an  earnest  age  we  live  in.  Life  means  more 
than  it  did  in  other  days ;  it  is  an  intense  reality,  crowded  thick  with  eager, 
questioning  thoughts  and  passionate  resolves ;  with  burning  aspirations  and 
agonized  doubts.  There  are  active  influences  at  work,  all  tending  to  one 
grand  object  —  moral,  social,  and  physical  advancement.  The  pen  is  the 
compass-needle  that  points  to  this  pole.  Shall  woman  dream  on  violet 
banks,  while  this  great  work  of  reformation  is  needing  her  talents  and  her 
energies?  Shall  she  prate  prettily  of  moonlight,  music,  love,  and  flowers, 
while  the  world  of  stern,  staring,  pressing  realities  of  wrong  and  woe,  of 
shame  and  toil,  surrounds  her?  Shall  she  stifle  the  voice  in  her  soul  for 
fear  of  being  sneered  at  as  strong-minded,  and  shall  her  great  heart  throb 
and  heave  as  did  the  mountain  of  ^Esop,  only  to  bring  forth  such  insignifi 
cant  mice —  such  productions  —  more  paltry  in  purpose  than  in  style  and 
conception  —  which  she  gives  to  the  world  as  the  offspring  of  her  brain  ? 

It  will  not  long  be  so.  Women  are  already  forming  higher  standards 
for  themselves,  learning  that  genius  has  no  sex,  and  that,  so  the  truth  be 
told,  it  matters  not  whether  the  pen  is  wielded  by  a  masculine  or  a  female 
hand.  The  active,  earnest,  fearless  spirit  of  the  age,  which  sends  the  blood 
thrilling  through  the  veins  of  women,  will  flow  out  through  their  pens,  and 
give  color  to  the  pictures  they  delineate,  to  the  principles  they  affirm.  Lit 
erature  must  embody  the  prominent  feeling  of  the  age  on  which  it  is 
engrafted.  It  is  only  an  isolated,  excepted  spirit,  like  Keats's,  which  can 
close  its  eyes  to  outward  influences,  and,  amid  the  roar  of  gathering  political 
storms,  and  the  distant  thunderings  of  the  French  Revolution,  lie  down 
among  the  sweet,  wild  English  flowers,  and  dream  out  its  dream  of  the  old 
Greek  beauty. 

How  should  a  woman  write  ?  I  answer,  as  men,  as  all  should  write  to 
whom  the  power  of  expression  has  been  given  —  honestly  and  without  fear. 
Let  them  write  what  they  feel  and  think,  even  if  there  be  errors  in  the 
thought  and  the  feeling  —  better  that  than  the  lifeless  inanities  of  which  lit 
erature,  and  especially  periodical  literature,  furnishes  so  many  deplorable 
samples. 

Our  opinions  on  ethical  and  social  questions  change  continually  as  the 
mind  develops,  and  the  light  of  knowledge  shines  more  broadly  through 
the  far-off  opening  in  the  labyrinth  of  inquiry  through  which  we  wander, 


MARY    E.    BRYAN.  667 

seeking  for  truth.  Thus,  even  when  writers  are  most  honest,  their  opinions, 
written  at  different  times,  often  appear  contradictory.  This  the  discerning 
reader  will  readily  understand.  He  will  know  that  in  ascending  the  ladder, 
upon  whose  top  the  angels  stand,  the  prospect  widens  and  changes  contin 
ually  as  newer  heights  are  won.  Emerson,  indeed,  tells  us  that  "  a  foolish 
consistency  is  the  hobgoblin  of  little  minds.  With  consistency,  a  great  soul 
has  simply  nothing  to  do.  Speak  what  you  think  now  in  hard  words  ;  and 
to-morrow,  speak  what  to-morrow  thinks  in  hard  words  again,  though  it 
contradict  everything  you  said  to-day." 

This  is  strong  —  perhaps  too  unqualified ;  but  even  inconsistency  is  better 
than  the  dull,  donkey-like  obstinacy  which  refuses  to  move  from  one  posi 
tion,  though  the  wooing  spirit  of  inquiry  beckon  it  onward,  and  winged 
speculation  tempt  it  to  scale  the  clouds. 

Still,  there  should  be  in  writing,  as  in  acting,  a  fixed  and  distinct  purpose 
to  which  everything  should  tend.  If  this  be  to  elevate  and  refine  the  human 
race,  the  purpose  will  gradually  and  unconsciously  work  out  its  own  accom 
plishment.  Not,  indeed,  through  didactic  homilies  only ;  every  image  of 
beauty  or  sublimity  crystallized  in  words,  every  philosophic  truth,  and  every 
thought  that  has  a  tendency  to  expand  the  mind  or  enlarge  the  range  of 
spiritual  vision,  will  aid  in  advancing  this  purpose,  will  be  as  oil  to  the  lamp 
we  carry  to  light  the  footsteps  of  others. 

As  to  the  subjects  that  should  be  written  upon,  they  are  many  and  varied ; 
there  is  no  exhausting  them  while  nature  teems  with  beauty  —  while  men 
live,  and  act,  and  love,  and  suffer — while  the  murmurs  of  the  great  ocean  of 
the  Infinite  come  to  us  in  times  when  the  soul  is  stillest,  like  music  that  is 
played  too  far  off  for  us  to  catch  the  tune.  Broad  fields  of  thought  lie  before 
us,  traversed,  indeed,  by  many  feet,  but  each  season  brings  fresh  fruits  to 
gather  and  new  flowers  to  crop. 

Genius,  like  light,  shines  upon  all  things  —  upon  the  muck-heap  as  upon 
the  gilded  cupola. 

As  to  the  wrong  and  wretchedness  which  the  novelist  lays  bare  —  it  will 
not  be  denied  that  such  really  exists  in  this  sin-beleaguered  world.  Where 
fore  shrink  and  cover  our  eyes  when  these  social  ulcers  are  probed  ?  Better 
earnestly  endeavor  to  eradicate  the  evil,  than  seek  to  conceal  or  ignore  its 
existence.  Be  sure  this  will  not  prevent  it  eating  deeper  and  deeper  into 
the  heart. 

Genius,  when  true  and  earnest,  will  not  be  circumscribed.  No  power 
shall  say  to  it :  "  Thus  far  shalt  thou  go,  and  no  farther."  Its  province  is, 
in  part,  to  daguerreotype  the  shifting  influences,  feelings,  and  tendencies  at 
work  in  the  age  in  which  it  exists  —  and  sin,  and  grief,  and  suffering,  as 
well  as  hope,  and  love,  and  joy,  and  star-eyed  aspiration,  pass  across  its 
pages  as  phantoms  across  the  charmed  mirror  of  the  magician.  Genius 
thrills  along  "  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  are  darkly  bound,"  from  the 
highest  to  the  lowest  link  of  the  social  ligature ;  for  true  genius  is  Christ- 


668  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

like;  if  scorns  nothing;  calls  nothing  that  God  made  common  or  unclean, 
boMtiM'  <>f  it  -  uTc.it  yearning  over  mankind,  its  longing  to  lift  them  up  from 
the  sordid  things  of  sense  in  which  they  grovel  to  its  own  higher  and  pure.- 
intellectual  or  spiritual  atmosphere.  The  noblest  woman  of  us  all,  Mrs. 
Elizabeth  Browning,  whom  I  hold  to  have  written,  in  "Aurora  Leigh,"  the 
greatest  book  of  this  century,  —  the  greatest,  not  from  the  wealth  of  its 
imagery,  or  the  vigor  of  its  thoughts,  but  because  of  the  moral  grandeur  of 
its  purpose,  —  Mrs.  Browning,  I  say,  has  not  shrunk  from  going  down,  with 
her  purity  encircling  her,  like  the  halo  around  the  Saviour's  head,  to  the 
abodes  of  shame  and  degradation  for  materials  to  aid  in  elucidating  the 
serious  truths  she  seeks  to  impress  for  sorrowful  examples  of  the  evils  for 
which  she  endeavors  to  find  some  remedy.  She  is  led  to  this  through  that 
love  which  is  inseparable  from  the  higher  order  of  genius.  That  noblest 
form  of  genius  which  generates  the  truest  poetry  —  the  poetry  of  feeling 
rather  than  of  imagination  —  warm  with  human  life,  but  uncolored  by 
voluptuous  passion  —  is  strongly  connected  with  love.  Not  the  sentiment 
which  dances  through  the  world  to  the  music  of  marriage-bells ;  but  that 
divine,  self-ignoring,  universal  love  of  which  the  inspired  apostle  wrote  so 
burningly,  when,  caught  up  in  the  fiery  chariot  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  he  looked 
down  upon  the  selfish  considerations  of  common  humanity:  the  love  (or 
charity)  "which  beareth  all  things,  endureth  all  things,  which  suffereth 
long  and  is  kind,"  —  the  love  which,  looking  to  heaven,  stretches  its  arms  to 
enfold  the  whole  human  brotherhood. 

This  is  the  love  which,  hand  in  hand  with  genius,  is  yet  to  work  out  the 
redemption  of  society.  I  have  faith  to  believe  it ;  and  sometimes,  when  the 
.  tide  of  hope  and  enthusiasm  is  high,  I  have  thought  that  woman,  with  the 
patience  and  the  long-suffering  of  her  love,  the  purity  of  her  intellect,  her 
instinctive  sympathy  and  her  soul  of  poetry,  might  be  God's  chosen  instru 
ment  in  this  work  of  gradual  reformation,  this  reconciling  of  the  harsh  con 
trasts  in  society  that  jar  so  upon  our  sense  of  harmony,  this  righting  of  the 
grievous  wrongs  and  evils  over  which  we  weep  and  pray,  this  final  uniting 
of  men  into  one  common  brotherhood  by  the  bonds  of  sympathy  and  affection. 

It  may  be  but  a  Utopian  dream;  but  the  faith  is  better  than  hopelessness ; 
it  is  elevating  and  cheering  to  believe  it.  It  is  well  to  aspire,  though  the 
aspiration  be  unfulfilled.  It  is  better  to  look  up  at  the  stars,  though  they 
dazzle,  than  down  at  the  vermin  beneath  our  feet. 


FANNY  E.  HERRON. 

MISS  HERRON'S  publications  have  been  few,  and  yet  we  rank  her 
among  the  "promising  writers  of  the  sunny  South."  In  Febru 
ary,  1867,  a  poem  of  four  hundred  lines  appeared  in  the  "  Mobile  Sun 
day  Times,"  entitled  "  The  Siege  of  Murany,"  which  was  Miss  Herron's 
first  contribution  to  that  journal.  "Glenelglen,"  a  romance  of  other 
days,  and  an  excellent  tale,  her  first  attempt  in  prose,  was  written  to 
compete  for  the  prize  offered  by  the  "  Times ; "  and,  after  appearing  in 
that  journal,  was  published  in  book-form. 

Though  originally  a  resident  of  Virginia,  the  father  of  Miss  Herron, 
the  late  James  Herron,  civil  engineer,  was  for  a  number  of  years  in 
charge  of  the  public  works  at  the  Pensacola  Navy  Yard.  Miss  Her 
ron  is  a  graduate  of  the  Academy  of  the  Visitation,  Mount  de  Sales, 
in  Baltimore  County,  Maryland,  taking  first  premiums  and  gold  medal. 

The  family  residence  of  Miss  Herron  was  burned  during  the  war, 
and  by  the  fortunes  of  war  she  became  a  sojouruer  at  the  Capital  of 
Alabama  —  although  still  considering  Florida,  the  land  of  flowers,  as 
her  home. 


EXTRACTS   FROM 

THE  SIEGE  OF   MUKANY. 

But  see,  on  yonder  neighboring  plains, 

Where  lingers  still  the  day, 
Each  silvered  helm,  each  burnished  shield 

Has  caught  its  latest  ray, 
And  flashes  back  in  mimic  light 

The  glory  Sol  had  given, 
Before  the  spangled  flag  of  night 

Had  draped  the  dome  of  heaven. 
Whence  came  yon  band  in  martial  gear? 

What  daring  chieftain  led 
Yon  royal  host  where  Muran's  guns 

Rain  vengeance  on  his  head? 

669 


670  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

*T  is  he !  't  is  he,  with  eagle  glance, 

And  forehead  bold  and  fair, 
With  cheek  sun-kissed  to  olive  hue, 

And  waving,  midnight  hair; 
'T  is  he,  with  martial  step  and  mien, 

Whose  deep-toned  voice's  sound 
Might  vie  with  lyre  by  Orpheus  touched 

T'  enchant  the  groves  around  ; 
'Tis  he,  whose  mouth  of  stern  resolve 

Can  melt  in  smiles  so  rare, 
So  soft,  so  sweet,  his  men  forget 

Their  months  of  toil  and  care, 
And  rush  to  death  in  countless  forms 

Whene'er  he  leads  the  way: 
'T  is  Wesselengi  —  he  who  sits 

In  tent  at  close  of  day. 
Though  young  in  years,  in  deeds  of  arms 

Full  many  score  is  he, 
As  foe  hath  never  yet  beheld 

Him  dastard  turn  to  flee. 
Yet  when  yon  dark,  stupendous  pile 

Upon  his  vision  rose, 
The  evil  fortune  he  deplored 

That  peopled  it  with  foes. 
By  nature  it  was  rendered  strong, 

Impregnable  by  art; 
Yet  felt  he,  never  from  those  walls 

With  honor  he'd  depart, 
Until  time-hallowed  Murany 

Had  owned  the  kingly  power, 
Until  his  monarch's  standard  waved 

Triumphant  o'er  each  tower. 
In  sullen  floods  these  sombre  thoughts 

Fast  o'er  his  spirit  roll, 
Till  thus  he  vented  to  the  night, 

The  anguish  of  his  soul : 

"Oh!  must  the  laurels  hardly  earned, 

Which  long  have  wreathed  my  brow, 
Be  tarnished  by  defeat  or  flight? 

Yield  to  a  woman  now? 
I  've  led  my  hosts  o'er  mountain  snow, 

By  prestige  of  my  name; 
Was't  but  to  watch  in  darkness  set 

The  day-star  of  my  fame? 


FANNY     E.    HEBRON.  671 

No !  brighter  yet  that  star  shall  glow, 

And  laurels  fresh  I  '11  reap ; 
Again  shall  fortune  greet  her  son, 

Or  with  my  dead  I  '11  sleep." 

O  Wesselengi,  was  it  pride, 

And  loyalty  alone, 
To  keep  undi  named  thy  martial  fame, 

And  stay  thy  monarch's  throne, 
That  made  thee  hazard  freedom  sweet  — 

Nay,  tempt  a  darker  fate  — 
By  venturing  unattended  thus 

Within  that  massive  gate? 
Or  had  the  charms  of  her  who  dwelt 

In  yonder  turret  old 
Been  whispered  in  thy  midnight  dreams, 
To  make  thee  rashly  bold? 


AUGUSTA  DE  MILLY. 

IN  Confederate  literature,  the  signature  of  "Ethel  Deen"  and  the 
initials  "  A.  D."  were  pleasant  sights  ;  for  the  article  to  which  they 
were  attached,  whether  prose  or  verse,  was  always  readable. 

Augusta  De  Milly  is  a  native  of  New  York  city,  but  having  many 
Southern  connections,  and  the  greater  portion  of  her  life  having  been 
passed  in  the  State  of  Florida,  she  claims  to  be  a  Southern  woman  by 
residence,  as  she  is  by  feeling. 

During  the  war,  Mrs.  De  Milly  contributed  to  the  literary  journals  of 
"  Dixie,"  principally  the  "  Southern  Field  and  Fireside,"  (Augusta,)  and 
"  Magnolia  Weekly,"  (Kichmond,)  under  signatures  alluded  to,  and 
many  of  her  articles,  written  in  a  careless  and  desultory  manner,  were 
excellent  and  much  praised.  Since  the  close  of  the  war,  her  attempts 
in  the  writing  line  have  been  few:  as  she  expresses  it,  "a  sehool-teacher 
has  little  time  to  gossip  with  the  Muses."  The  prose  productions  of 
Mrs.  De  Milly  are  short  sketches,  well  written  and  interesting ;  but,  as 
she  says  in  a  note  to  the  writer,  "  Never  having  made  any  sustained 
effort,  I  can  point  to  no  effort  which  would  at  all  afford  a  foundation 
for  a  literary  reputation." 

Her  home  is  in  the  "  land  of  flowers,"  where  the  "  fount  of  perpet 
ual  youth  "  was  said  to  be  in  ancient  days,  and  indeed  where  sunshine 
and  beautiful  blooms  are  perennial.  "  Jacksonville,  Florida,"  is  her 
address. 


"IMPLORA  PACE." 

The  most  frequent  inscription  on  the  tombs  in  Italy  is  the  above  petition. 

The  spring-time  died  —  so  would  I  gladly  die 
And  be  at  rest ;  for  life  brings  but  remorse  : 

I  'd  welcome  thee,  dread  Azrael,  fearlessly, 
Nor  once  bewail  my  yet  unfinished  course. 

Come,  dreamless  sleep ;  no  phosphorescent  spark 

Can  lure  me  then  to  wander  in  the  dark. 

67:2 


AUGUSTA    DE    MILLY.  673 

Germs  wither,  buds  pale  at  their  birth, 

The  chilling  winds  stab  blossoms  without  ruth, 
The  grain  must  lie  among  the  tares  of  earth, 

And  scudding  vapors  hide  the  heaven  of  truth. 
Must  I,  whose  soon  maturity  was  vain, 
Take  up  the  burden  of  my  life  again  ? 

The  summer  died  —  and  fain  would  I  too  rest 
Within  thy  pitying  arms ;  quick  tempests  drown 

Me  with  their  tears  —  fierce  lightnings  scathe  my  breast, 
And  the  rich  treasures  of  my  heart  go  down. 

Oh,  be  not  thou  inexorable,  Death  ! 

Kiss  on  my  lips  thine  all-availing  breath. 

Come  thou !  the  orchid's  eyes  are  calm 

That  look  from  the  greensward  —  the  shade 
Of  feathery  cedars  woos  me  with  its  balm, 

And  the  eternal  stars  smile  ever  overhead. 
How  can  I  hush  my  heart  that  moans  its  pain  ? 
How  take  the  burden  of  my  life  again  ? 

See !  even  the  autumn  lies  beneath  his  pall 

Heraldic.     O  ye  winds  that  round  him  sweep, 
Could  ye,  like  his,  my  spirit  disenthrall, 

Then  would  I  calmly  lie  —  and  calmly  sleep. 
Dews  of  the  mocking  vine  but  parch  my  lips ; 
I  'd  quaff,  O  Death  !  thy  cup's  nepenthean  deeps. 

Must  I,  pale  king !  so  weary  of  the  strife 

For  fame,  for  wealth,  for  fruits  that  ever  cloy, — 
I,  who  had  sown  the  affluence  of  my  life, 

And  built  wide  barns  for  harvestings  of  joy, — 
Must  I,  who  garner  blight,  not  laughing  grain, 
Take  up  the  burden  of  such  life  again  ? 

Between  white  hills,  within  his  nest  of  snows 

Plucked  from  the  bosom  of  the  brooding  cloud, 
Dead  winter  lies  —  so  peaceful  his  repose, 

No  royal  robes  could  lure  me  like  his  shroud ; 
My  blooms  like  his  are  fettered  for  all  time, 
Prisoned  in  bars  of  ice,  and  frost,  and  rime. 

Why  should  I  live?    My  heart  is  stark  and  dead 
To  all  sweet  influence.    Never  love-bird's  lays 
11 


674  SOUTHLAND     \V  11  I  T  I 

Wake  tuneful  carols  there  —  such  songs  have  fled 

To  where  are  verdant  boughs  and  blossoming  sprays. 
Hold  out  thy  sceptre,  Death  !  —  if  thou  dost  rei^n, 
Nor  bid  ine  bear  life's  burden  yet  again. 


FLORIDA  CAPTA, 

Leaning  her  fair  head  against  the  pines, 
Like  some  faint  lily  resting  on  the  waves, 

In  the  clear  waters  —  where  a  white  moon  shines  — 
Idle  and  dreaming,  either  hand  she  laves. 

Her  listless  cheek  the  green  palmetto  fans ; 

The  blue-eyed  vine  her  sighing  lips  has  kissed  ; 
The  pitying  rivers,  from  their  reedy  bands 

Loosening  their  tresses,  fold  her  in  the  mist. 

And  over  her  the  sobbing  roses  bend, 
Dropping  their  fragrant  tears  upon  her  face ; 

For  her  wan  temples,  with  a  trembling  hand, 
The  jasmine  breaks  her  alabaster  vase. 

In  vain,  from  every  sprouting  screen  around, 

A  sweet-voiced  bird  her  plaintive  love-song  sings ; 

With  the  soft  moonlight  linked  and  interwound, 
Kippling  the  air  in  bright  harmonic  rings. 

A  tender  memory  haunts  her  where  she  lies  — 
The  beauteous  Florida!  —  the  queen  uncrowned! 

And  dims  the  light  in  her  sweet,  mournful  eyes, 
That  see  not  wave,  nor  moon,  nor  aught  around. 

She  feels  again  upon  her  bosom  bare 
The  milky  teeth  of  the  young  laughing  corn ; 

Her  fingers  stray  among  the  tangled  hair, 
Silken  and  white,  of  one  yet  later  born. 

No  more !  no  more  on  any  summer  night 
They  '11  draw  their  nurture  from  her  crescive  breast ; 

No  more  the  breathings  of  their  soft  delight 
Shall  lull  their  mother  into  blissful  rest. 

Above  her,  O  ye  fauns !  bend  branch  and  bough  ; 
Shield  her  fair  form  'gainst  the  chill,  blighting  dew  ; 


AUGUSTA    DE    MILLY.  675 

Pity  her  dolor,  and  on  her  pale  brow 
Bind  your  gray  pearls  of  beaded  mistletoe. 

For  from  the  dusk  in  her  sweet,  mournful  eyes, 
That  see  not  moon,  nor  wave,  nor  aught  around, 

Never  again  shall  full-orbed  hope  arise 
To  shine  on  her  —  on  Florida  uncrowned. 


BLUE  AND  GOLD. 

Grizzly-bearded,  swarthy  and  keen, 
Sits  a  jeweller,  cunning  and  cold; 

Spectral-eyed,  like  a  Bedouin, 
Counting  his  gems  and  gold: 

Counting  his  chaplets  of  Syrian  jet, 
And  odorous  amber  steeped  in  the  sun, 

The  golden  circlets,  turquoise  set, 
A  dowry  every  one  ; 

Blood-red  rubies,  pearls  like  grapes, 
In  clusters  of  purple,  black,  and  white ; 

Cameo  girdles  for  exquisite  shapes ; 
Diamond  drops  of  light ; 

Jewelled  masks  and  filigree  fans 
In  carved  cases  of  tropical  wood ; 

Aspic  bracelets,  ouches,  and  hands,     . 
Clasps  for  mantle  and  hood. 

Dreaming  a  dream  of  sordid  gain, 

The  merchant,  keen-eyed,  cunning,  and  cold, 
Smiles  in  thought  of  a  yellow  rain, 

Ducats  and  sequins  of  gold. 

Trailing  her  robes  of  velvet  and  lace, 
Through  the  luminous  dimness  glows 

Viola's  form  of  girlish  grace, 
And  face  like  an  Alpine  rose. 

She  comes  to  look  at  the  baubles  new, 

To  look  at  the  rubies  and  strings  of  pearls, 

With  light  in  her  eyes  of  turquoise  blue, 
And  light  in  her  golden  curls. 


676  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

She  fans  herself  with  the  filigree  fans, 
Opal-handled  with  flame  and  dusk  — 

Giving  the  palms  of  her  slender  hands 
The  scent  of  attar  and  musk. 

She  tosses  the  chaplets  of  Syrian  jet 
And  amber  by  with  a  careless  air, 

And  looks  in  vain  for  a  jewelled  net 
For  her  beautiful  golden  hair. 

Grizzly-bearded,  with  spectral  gleams 

In  the  merchant's  keen  eyes,  cunning  and  bold, 

Through  the  long  day  he  sits  and  dreams 
Of  mingled  blue  and  gold, — 

Counting  his  wealth  of  baubles  and  toys, 
Of  the  hoarded  coin  which  his  coffers  hold, 

A  snare  for  the  eyes  of  blue  turquoise, 
A  net  for  the  hair  of  gold. 


MRS.  M.  LOUISE  CROSSLEY. 

A  THENS,  Georgia,  was  the  birthplace  of  Mrs.  Crossley,  n6e  Miss 
-ij-  M.  Louise  Rogers.  On  the  maternal  side,  she  is  descended 
from  an  ancient  English  family,  who  trace  their  blood  back  to  a 
ducal  reservoir.  Her  mother,  a  famous  belle  and  beauty  in  her  youth, 
early  exchanged  her  maiden  name  of  Houghton  for  that  of  Rogers, 
and  was  blessed  (according  to  patriarchal  manner  of  thinking)  with  a 
"goodly  number  of  offspring."  Perhaps  it  is  to  the  circumstance  of 
her  having  been  one  of  a  large  family  of  children,  that  Mrs.  Crossley 
owes,  in  a  measure,  her  sympathetic,  self-sacrificing  disposition,  and 
her  admirable  faculty  of  self-help.  The  necessity  of  sometimes  play 
ing  the  mother's  part  of  comforter  or  adviser  to  younger  brothers  or 
sisters  —  the  interchange  of  little  confidences  and  services  among  each 
other  —  nurtured  the  kindly  affections;  while  the  attrition  of  different 
characters  with  her  own,  quickened  and  stimulated  her  mind,  without 
detracting  from  its  individuality. 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  slight  sketch  to  follow  our  authoress 
through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  her  life :  enough  for  us  to  note  the 
circumstances  tending  to  the  development  of  her  intellectual  tastes. 

In  her  childhood,  she  was  left  much  to  herself —  left  to  puzzle  out 
her  own  conclusions  from  the  phenomena  of  life  she  saw  around  her. 
In  the  stereotyped  "  young  lady's  education  "  she  was  not  deficient, 
but  her  best  teachers  were  nature  and  experience,  and  the  poets,  with 
whom  she  communed  in  sweet,  stolen  hours.  The  faculty  of  her  mind 
which  was  first  to  mature  was  a  delicate  sensibility  to  beauty.  Every 
phase  and  mood  of  nature  was  dear  to  the  heart  that  loved  her.  The 
stirring  of  a  dew-shining  leaf  in  the  April  air ;  the  sailing  of  a  snowy 
cloud  ;  the  voice  of  a  bird  ;  the  perfume  of  a  hidden  flower;  the  gur 
gle  of  a  brook  —  every  beautiful  sight  or  sound  of  nature  awoke  a 
thrill  in  her  heart.  But,  as  yet,  she  only  felt  the  harmonies  of  nature, 
she  had  not  essayed  to  combine  and  express  them  in  the  immortal 
music  of  language.  Sweet  and  stolen  fancies  had  visited  the  soul  of 
the  thoughtful  girl,  but  they  had  been  sacred  to  herself.  The  first 
years  of  her  young  girlhood  had  passed,  and  the  future  bas  bleu  had 

677 


678  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

given  to  the  public  no  token  -of  her  literary  proclivities.  The  first 
published  production  of  her  pen  was  written  while  she  was  in  South 
western  Georgia,  an  inmate  of  the  beautiful  home  of  Major  Edwards. 
Mrs.  Edwards,  her  aunt  on  the  maternal  side,  was  also  the  mother  of 
Mrs.  Mary  E.  Bryan,  whose  star  of  fame  was  then  rising.  The  cousins 
met  there  for  the  first  time,  and  it  is  possible  that,  in  the  year  of 
close  intercourse  which  followed,  they  mutually  influenced,  in  some 
degree,  each  other's  character. 

There  are  critical  times  in  almost  every  life,  when  the  slightest  cir 
cumstance  may  serve  to  change  the  current  of  destiny  ;  and  it  was 
probably  owing  to  this  pleasant  summer  visit  that  Miss  Rogers  turned 
her  attention  to  authorship  so  soon;  for,  like'  Miss  Edgeworth,  her 
"great  respect  for  the  public"  would  have  made  her  timid  about  pub 
lishing,  unless  stimulated  by  the  example  of  one  her  opposite  in  this 
particular.  Such  a  one,  she  found  in  her  cousin.  Although  so 
young,  Mrs.  Bryan  had  already  sounded  nearly  the  whole  gamut  of 
feeling,  and  now  she  was  reproducing  her  experiences  through  the 
medium  of  her  pen.  Passionate,  impetuous,  and  bold,  she  was  rapidly 
throwing  off  her  daring  opinions  and  sentiments,  more  from  the  fever 
ish  unrest  and  turbulent  fulness  of  her  mind  than  from  any  fixed 
purpose  or  reverent  devotion  to  art  (such  as  may  have  afterward  come 
to  be  her  motive),  and  publishing  with  the  indifference  of  one  not 
troubled  with  any  overpowering  "  respect  for  the  public." 

The  contagious  quality  of  the  cacoethes  scribendi  is  proverbial.  The 
daily  sight  of  manuscript,  the  indifference  with  which  scribbled  sheets 
were  dispatched  to  various  editors,  had  their  influence  upon  the  more 
timid  cousin.  The  long  walks  through  bay-blossoming  humniocks, 
and  pine-fragrant  hills,  under  the  open  skies,  was  another  source  of 
inspiration.  The  sweet  fancies  and  lovely  thoughts  that  had  so  long 
been  singing  to  themselves  in  the  brain  of  the  young  poetess,  now 
awoke  to  audible  music.  Under  the  shade  of  the  long-leaved  pines,  a 
prose  poem,  whose  theme  was  "  Beauty,"  was  written,  read  aloud  to 
the  admiring  cousin,  and  published.  The  ice  was  broken ;  the  elo 
quent  rhapsody,  instinct  with  true  poetic  enthusiasm,  was  favorably 
received  by  the  public,  and  the  fair  writer  essayed  again  and  again, 
modestly  publishing  in  newspapers  only,  and  sheltering  herself  under 
the  nom  de  guerre  of  "Rena."  In  1859,  she  was  engaged  as  a  regular 
contributor  to  the  "  Bainbridge  Argus,"  and  her  graceful  essays,  and 
sprightly  sketches  of  life  and  character,  aided  in  no  slight  degree  the 


M.    "LOUISE    CROSS  LEY.  679 

popularity  of  that  journal.  Afterward  she  wrote  some  excellent 
pieces  for  a  short-lived  periodical,  published  in  Atlanta;  and,  later 
still,  under  the  pseudonym  of  "  Currer  Lyle,"  she  contributed  some  of 
her  most  finished  articles  to  the  "  Literary  Companion,"  a  journal  of 
considerable  ability,  published  in  Newnan,  Georgia.  For  a  short  time, 
during  the  war,  she  contributed  regularly  to  the  "  Southern  Illustrated 
News,"  under  her  own  name ;  and  in  1866  we  find  her  name  among 
the  talented  contributors  to  "Scott's  Monthly  Magaziue."  Her  nature 
is  very  sympathetic,  and  most  tenderly  human  ;  and  many  of  her 
pieces  in  newspapers,  during  the  war,  were  replete  with  a  womanly 
but  fervid  patriotism,  and  the  tenderest  sympathy  for  the  soldier 
wearing  the  Confederate  gray.  We  were  told  by  an  ex-officer  that 
many  were  the  blessings  he  had  heard  breathed  upon  her  name  by  the 
Southern  soldier,  as  he  read  her  poems  and  essays  by  the  light  of  his 
camp-fire.  We  understand  that  she  is  now  engaged  in  collecting  and 
composing  materials  for  a  volume  destined  to  contain,  not  only  her 
best  productions  that  have  appeared  in  print,  but  others,  especially 
two  novelettes  that  have  never  been  published. 

I  have  already  too  far  transgressed  the  limits  allowed  me  to  attempt 
any  analysis  of  Mrs.  Crossley's  writings.  Her  talent  is  poetical,  not 
philosophical.  She  mirrors  truly  and  beautifully  the  more  apparent 
aspects  and  phenomena  of  nature  and  art,  of  life  and  character ;  but 
the  more  intricate  and  less  thankful  task  of  portraying  the  hidden 
meanings  and  relations  that  underlie  these  she  leaves  to  more  analytic 
minds.  She  holds  that  there  is,  in  life  and  in  nature,  enough  of 
plainly  apparent  sunshine  and  shadow,  of  joy  and  sorrow,  of  good  and 
evil,  out  of  which  to  weave  her  mingled  web.  Her  style  is  elegantly 
pure  and  simple;  her  diction  musical,  and  not  unfrequently  energetic. 
In  her  poetry,  she  reminds  me  more  of  the  Ettrick  Shepherd  than  of 
any  other  writer  whom  I  can  now  call  to  mind. 

If  I  were  restricted  to  a  single  word  with  which  to  describe  the  per 
sonal  appearance  of  Mrs.  Crossley,  that  word  should  be  "  noble."  It 
most  fully  embodies  my  impression  of  her  gracious  presence.  It  con 
veys  an  idea  of  the  sweet  dignity,  the  excellence  of  mind  and  heart 
apparent  in  her  countenance  and  in  her  manner.  In  her  presence, 
one  involuntarily  acknowledges  the  power  of  a  pure  and  serene  woman 
hood. 

It  is  no  ordinary  face  —  that  which  rises  before  me  as  I  write  —  the 
sweet,  peculiar  smile,  one  of  the  chief  charms  of  the  changeful  counte- 


680  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

nance ;  the  dark  blue,  deep  eyes,  full  of  vivid  expression,  and  mellowed 
by  long,  brown  lashes ;  the  white  forehead,  high  and  broad,  and  for 
ever  suggesting  that  noble  line : 

"  The  dome  of  thought,  the  palace  of  the  soul." 

No  portrait  could  do  her  justice ;  for  it  could  catch  only  one  of  the 
many  phases  and  flitting  expressions  of  her  face.  As  a  friend  and 
admirer  remarked :  "  Her  face  is  an  enigma  to  me  —  ever  so  changing 
in  its  expression.  At  times  it  is  pale,  passionless,  listless ;  and  again 
it  beams  with  a  brilliancy  that  makes  her  almost  beautiful." 

Her  social  talent  I  consider  of  the  highest  order,  because  it  is  not 
positive ;  it  does  not  lead  her  to  overpower  others  by  her  own  individ 
uality  —  to  create  discord  by  antagonism ;  but  rather  to  diffuse  a  har 
monizing  influence  through  the  social  elements  with  which  she  comes 
in  contact.  It  has  the  rare  quality  which  existed  in  perfection  with 
Madame  Recamier,  and  exists  in  our  own  age  and  country  with 
Madame  Le  Vert  —  that  sympathetic  and  assimilating  faculty  —  that 
magnetism  by  which  one  mind  may  put  itself  en  rapport  with  another, 
call  out  its  best  qualities,  win  its  confidence,  and  arouse  its  self-respect ; 
in  brief,  put  it  in  a  genial  humor  with  itself  and  others.  Give  me  one 
such  harmonious  power  in  society,  and  I  will  gladly  relinquish  to  you 
a  De  Stael  or  a  Sand,  who,  however  brilliant,  are  too  positively  elec 
trical  in  their  natures  to  be  productive  of  social  concord. 

I  cannot  but  look  forward  to  a  bright  future  for  Mrs.  Crossley. 
She  has  energy  and  perseverance,  and  lately  she  has  attained  to  a 
belief  in  herself — in  her  own  capabilities.  She  has  also  that  "noble 
discontent "  (intellectually)  which  prevents  her  from  being  satisfied 
with  her  attainments,  and  keeps  her  ever  striving  to  reach  her  own 
high-placed  ideal.  Examining  what  she  has  written,  I  can  see  that 
her  range  of  thought  continually  widens ;  her  conceptions  of  life  and 
nature  grow  constantly  more  clear ;  she  is  perceiving  the  deep  soul  of 
truth  which  exists  in  all  things,  and  is  bodying  it  forth  with  a  bolder 
and  more  certain  hand.  She  does  not  allow  the  flatteries  which  the 
well-meaning  press  of  the  South  showers  upon  its  writers  with  such  a 
lavish,  and,  unfortunately,  such  an  indiscriminate  hand,  to  render  her 
self-complacent;  but,  keeping  her  own  ideal  in  view,  she  presses  ear 
nestly  forward,  destined,  I  believe,  to  take  an  enviable  rank  in  the 
world  of  letters. 

In  May,.  1866,  the  subject  of  our  sketch  was  married  to  J.  T.  Cross- 


M.    LOUISE    CROSSLEY.  681 

ley,  Esq.,  a  gentleman  of  great  worth  and  respectability  —  a  union, 
we  are  told,  not  only  of  hands,  but  also  of  hearts ;  and  she  is  now  a 
residen^  of  Columbus,  Florida. 


MEMOEIA  IN  ETERNA. 

Dead  in  his  beauty,  young  manhood,  and  pride, 
Torn  from  our  hearts  and  home  fireside ; 
Dead  to  the  honors  he  could  nobly  have  won, 
In  the  world's  great  battle  he  just  had  begun ; 
Dead  to  all  friends  who  loved  him  so  well, 
Dead  to  all  foes  —  if  one,  none  can  tell; 
Gone  from  the  earth  into  the  unknown, 
To  solve  the  great  MYSTEEY  lying  beyond 
All  the  tinsel  and  glare,  the  pomp  and  the  show, 
The  care,  and  the  grief  and  sin  that  we  know  ; 
The  soul's  grand  soarings  in  this  world  of  ours, 
The  bliss  and  the  woe,  the  thorns  and  the  flowers, 
That  make  up  this  thing  we  vainly  call  life, 
With  all  of  its  death,  its  sorrow,  and  strife. 

0  my  brother !  my  brother,  lost,  loved  one  ! 
Canst  thou  hear  me  now  call  thee,  far  beyond" 
In  thy  unseen  home  ?  canst  thou  see  the  tears, 
That  flow  from  my  eyes  as  the  night  appears, 
And  I  bow  my  head  low  down  in  the  dust, 
And  wail  for  thy  love,  its  sweetness  and  trust? 

O  pitiless  Death ! 
You  've  taken  from  one,  from  an  old  man's  heart, 

His  fondest  hope  and  pride — 
A  mother's  dear  and  noblest  one, 

That  in  his  beauty  died. 
You  've  torn  from  the  arms  of  sisters  so  dear, 

From  all  their  fond  caressing, 
The  darling  one  of  all  the  loved  band  — 

Their  proud,  sweet,  earthly  blessing ! 
Oh,  cruel !  most  cruel  I  you  took  him  from  me 

Without  one  word  of  warning  : 

1  thought  he  still  lived,  hoped,  and  loved, 
Until  that  woful  morning 

They  came  and  told  me  he  was  dead, 
And  left  my  heart  a-breaking, 


682  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

With  the  sunlight  gayly  streaming  in, 
To  mock  my  sad  awaking. 

Dead !  O  kind  Saviour,  and  not  one  sweet  word 

To  bless  my  fond  ears,  if  I  only  had  heard ; 

No  look  of  dear  love  to  comfort  my  heart, 

No  clasp  of  the  hand,  so  loth  here  to  part ; 

Without  one  kiss  on  the  broad,  noble  brow, 

Where  death  had  set  his  pale  signet  now, 

And  darkened  the  light  of  the  peerless  mind, 

With  its  truth,  bright  honor,  and  heart  ever  kind. 

Dead !  sweet  Jesus,  and  all  loved  ones  away 

With  but  one  of  the  band  'round  his  death-bed  to  stay, 

And  wipe  the  cold  drops  from  the  dear,  loved  face, 

And  catch  the  last  words  the  pale  lips  traced, 

Before  the  freed  spirit  took  its  swift  flight 

To  God's  bowers  of  bliss,  eternally  bright. 

0  Death,  most  dainty  old  epicure, 

On  the  fairest,  the  dearest,  the  lovely  and  pure 

Thou  lovest  to  gorge,  and  greedily  taste 

Of  flesh  as  priceless  to  us  as  the  feast 

Of  fabled  ambrosia  the  gods  supped  upon 

In  their  cloud-palace  homes ;  while  thou  passest  on, 

And  leavest  the  idiot,  the  lout,  and  the  clown, 

The  corrupt,  and  the  bad,  with  sin  bound  around, 

To  live  here  on  earth  unscathed,  as  they  stand 

'Midst  all  its  bright  beauty  of  sky,  sea,  and  laud. 

My  brother,  my  darling  brother,  my  pride, 

In  this  clime  near  tropical  skies 
We  '11  cull  the  fairest  and"  sweetest  of  blooms, 

With  the  softest  and  purest  dyes, 
And  twine  them  above  thy  silent,  dark  tomb : 

We  '11  water  them  with  our  tears, 
And  fervently  kiss  each  fragrant,  bright  flower, 

When  twilight  softly  appears, 
And  wraps  its  robe  of  royal-bright  hue 

About  thy  lowly  resting-place, 
While  humming-birds  fairily  float  on  the  air, 
Or  kiss  some  flower's  pure,  sweet  face. 
White  lilies  we  '11  bring  thee, 

For  purity's  token, 

And  roses  the  loveliest, 

For  love  unbroken ; 


M.    LOUISE    CROSSLEY.  683 

Violets  blue,  and  orange  blooms  too,  . 
Sweet  as  the  home  of  a  dainty  fay 
Slumbering  all  the  livelong  day 
In  a  water-lily,  upon  some  stream 
Murmuring  ever  a  happy  dream: 
Jasmines  white,  fragrant  and  pure, 

We  too  will  sadly  bring, 
To  mingle  with  the  rose's  hue 

These  dear,  sweet  flowers  of  spring ; 
And  the  queenly  magnolia, 

Fair  as  the  flowers 
That  grow  in  the  gardens  of  Gul, 

'Neath  Orient  bowers, 

Perfume  and  pearly  showers. 

Blow,  blow,  ye  sweetest  blooms, 

Above  our  darling's  grave ! 
Oh,  die  not  in  some  upas  blast, 

But  let  the  dewdrops  lave 
Your  fragrant  lips  and  glowing  hearts, 

And  keep  them  pure  and  bright, 
While  from  the  skies  the  stars  drop  down 

Their  dreamy,  silvery  light ! 
And  winds — oh,  sigh  soft  and  sweet, 
Come  with  lightest,  hallowed  feet, 
And  make  low  music  round  that  spot, 
Sweet  as  in  some  fairy  grot 

.ZEolian  harps  were  sighing  — 
Sighing,  and  dying, 
In  the  completeness 
Of  their  own  sweetness. 

My  brother !  my  brother !  loved  and  lost, 
My  heart's  own  idol  —  I  confess  it  the  most ! 
Father,  forgive! — our  idol,  dream,  and  hope, 
From  youth's  bright  years  all  up  the  sunny  slope 
To  manhood's  princely  prime. 

Thou,  the  Great  Builder 
Of  the  human  frame,  didst  make  him  in  all 
The  completeness  of  mortal  mould,  and  gavest 
Him  to  us  to  love ;  then,  in  Thy  compassion, 
Oh,  forgive  our  worship  of  the  creature 
Thou  didst  make  !    Father  in  heaven,  I  loved 
Him  so !     I  know  Thou  doest  all  things  well, 


684  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Then,  oh !  upbraid  me  not  that  I  miss  his  step, 

And  his  presence  ever  near  me,  at  morning's 

Radiant  birth,  at  noontide  glow,  and  evening's 

Bridal  of  the  sea  and  sky  —  that  the  world, 

Which  Thou  didst  make  and  fling  into  wide  space, 

A  globe  of  glowing,  Eden  beauty,  is  now  all 

A  blank  to  my  tearful  eyes,  as  I  bow 

My  weary  head  beneath  the  bending  blue 

Of  these  star-gemmed  skies,  and  seem  still  to  hear 

His  dear,  loved  voice  in  song,  or  the  melody 

Of  poesy's  written  sweetness,  which  we  have 

So  loved  and  often  read  each  to  the  other ; 

And  the  rare,  sweet  music,  sparkling  or  dreamy, 

His  dear  fingers  were  wont  to  wake,  to  still 

My  spirit,  tempest-tossed,  in  sad,  sweet  dreams 

Of  Elysian's  fair  and  ever-happy  fields. 

My  Father !  upbraid  me  not  that  I  mourn 

As  Kachel  mourned  in  Rama ;  but  let  me 

Bring  my  bleeding  heart,  my  shattered  dreams, 

And  lay  them  on  Thy  sacrificial  altars ; 

Let  me  keep  the  glittering  crown,  the  harp 

Of  gold,  the  paradisial  fruit  in  view, 

And  thus  lose  sight  of  my  broken  idols  here  — 

Not  in  some  loathsome  charnel-house,  but  robed 

And  crowned  before  Thy  throne,  where  angels  bow- 

A  glittering,  starry  throng ! 


TENNESSEE, 


685 


MKS.  L.  VIRGINIA  FRENCH. 


RS.  FRENCH'S  birth  and  education  are  the  best  the  country 
affords.  Poeta  nascitur,  and  Mrs.  French,  aside  from  being 
a  "  born  "  poet,  is  a  "  born  "  lady.  She  knows  it  as  well. 

Her  family,  early  incidents  of  her  life,  and  romantic  mar 
riage  are  piquantly  spoken  of  in  "Mary  Forrest's"  elegant  work, 
"Women  of  the  South."  Born  on  the  fair  shores  of  Virginia,  educated 
in  Pennsylvania,  and  married  in  Tennessee,  her  life  has  been  like  her 
self,  varied  and  cosmopolitan.  She  is,  nevertheless,  a  true  daughter 
of  the  Old  Dominion ;  a  fair  representative  of  its  gay  grace,  its  cordial 
hospitality,  its  love  of  luxury,  and  its  indomitable  pride. 

The  personal  appearance  of  Mrs.  French  is  highly  prepossessing, 
and  her  manner  so  gifted  with  repose  as  to  be  unusually  tranquillizing 
in  its  social  influence.  Yet  there  are  seasons  when  the  blue  eyes  flash, 
and  the  lips  are  wreathed  in  smiles  so  vivid  and  genial,  that  one  can 
scarcely  understand  how  the  quiet  lady,  a  moment  before  sitting  so 
restfully,  and  listening  so  patiently,  can  be  the  same  as  she,  so  sud 
denly  stirred  to  interest  and  emotion. 

That  rarest  of  all  American  gifts  —  wit  —  has  been  conferred  upon 
her,  in  conjunction  with  poetic  genius  of  no  common  order;  and  it  is 
delightful  to  hear  her  low,  rich  laugh  rippling  out  in  ready  recognition 
of  some  point  of  humor,  obtuse  to  most  listeners,  and  to  find  her  arrow 
of  repartee  always  on  the  string,  though  its  point  is  never  envenomed 
by  the  poison  of  bitterness. 

Mrs.  French  possesses  a  noble  nature;  full  of  generous  emotions  and 
fine  impulses ;  turning  away  from  all  wrong ;  not  so  much,  perhaps, 
because  of  the  wickedness  of  wrong ;  but  because  wrong  implies  some 
thing  low  and  mean ;  and  to  do  wrong,  therefore,  would  be  too  deep  a 
condescension;  —  large-hearted  and  liberal-minded;  taking  broad  views 
of  life  and  humanity ;  possessed  of  a  catholic  charity  which  "  circles 
all  the  human  race,"  and  a  nature  with  but  one  "prejudice,"  i.  e.,  a 

687 


688  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

healthy  and  well-developed  hatred  of  all  Puritanism — Puritanism,  as 
she  understands  it,  viz.,  the  embodiment  of  hypocrisy  and  cant;  — 
radically  independent  in  all  things ;  doing  each  day  "  whatever  duty 
lies  next  to  her,"  leaving  the  results  with  God. 

"  In  1848,"  says  '  Mary  Forrest,'  *  "  Virginia  Smith  and  her  sister 
returned  from  school  to  their  father's  house.  But  a  new  spirit  was 
rife  in  the  old  home;  its  lares  and  penates  had  been  displaced,  and 
the  two  sisters,  ever  united  by  the  tenderest  ties  of  sympathy,  deter 
mined  to  go  forth  into  the  world  and  shape  their  own  destinies. 
Before  the  close  of  the  year,  they  were  established  in  Memphis,  Ten 
nessee,  as  teachers. 

"  Strangers  in  a  strange  city,  they  put  themselves  bravely  to  their 
self-appointed  work,  and  by  their  energetic  perseverance,  no  less  than 
their  personal  and  intellectual  charms,  soon  won  the  confidence  of  all. 

"  Having  achieved  a  social  and  tutorial  position,  the  elder  sister 
began  to  turn  her  attention  to  literary  pursuits,  contributing  occasional 
articles  to  the  journals' and  magazines  of  that  region  under  the  name 
of  '  L'Inconnue.' 

"  In  1852,  she  became  associated  with  some  gentlemen  of  New 
Orleans  in  the  publication  of  the  '  Southern  Ladies'  Book.' 

"On  the  12th  of  January,  1853,  she  was  married  to  Mr.  John  H. 
French,  of  McMinnville,  Tennessee." 

Mrs.  French  has  published  one  volume  —  a  collection  of  her  poems, 
under  the  title  of  "Wind  Whispers"  —  in  1856;  and  a  tragedy,  in 
five  acts,  under  the  title  of  "  Iztalilxo,  the  Lady  of  Tula."  She  has 
written  enough  for  half  a  dozen  volumes,  or  more.  She  takes  all 
criticism  in  the  proper  spirit,  having  no  fear  of  the  "  small  snarlers," 
but  little  reverence  for  the  great  ones,  and  no  ambition  to  become  a 
"  serf  of  the  booksellers." 

But  few  ladies  whom  "  we  read  about "  have  any  deficiencies.  Mrs. 
French  is  the  exception  which  proves  the  rule.  A  serious  defect  in 
her  organization  is  want  of  application.  Had  she  never  married,  but 
devoted  herself  to  literature  and  art,  she  would  assuredly  have  been  emi 
nently  successful.  But  her  life  is  too  full  of  other  attractions  —  home, 
and  home  happiness.  She  entirely  repudiates  the  name  of  "  littera 
teur;"  loves  books,  but  cares  no  more  for  being  put  into  them  than 
the  lark  cares  for  seeing  his  morning  hymn  written  out  on  a  musical 
score.  A  great  deficiency  this  want  of  ambition  ;  this  lack  of  interest 

*  "  Women  of  the  South,"  page  440. 


L.    VIRGINIA    FRENCH.  689 

in  her  own  reputation.  She  has  no  consideration  for  any  work  that  is 
done.  An  article  completed,  the  excitement  of  writing  it  over,  is 
thought  of  no  more.  Literature,  which  with  her  should  occupy  the 
front  rank,  does  not  even  take  a  secondary  place  in  her  life  and  esti 
mation  ;  it  is  merely  a  kind  of  little  by-play  while  the  real  drama  of 
life  goes  on.  She  scatters  here  and  there  the  efi'ervescence  of  an  afflu 
ent  intellect,  the  deeps  of  which  are  still  clear,  calm,  and  undrawn 
upon.  What  the  public  sees  of  her  writings  as  yet  are  merely  "gold- 
blossoms,"  sparkling  quartz,  which  indicate  the  precious  ore  that  lies 
below;  the  mine  itself  is  unworked,  almost  untouched.  Emphatically 
a  child  of  the  sun,  her  fancies,  bright  and  beautiful  as  foam-bells  on 
the  deep,  never  suggest  to  you  the  thought  of  effort  or  exhaustion,  any 
more  than  the  sigh  of  an  JEolian  lyre  when  "  the  breeze  is  spent,  inti 
mates  that  the  mighty  billows  of  the  air  shall  surge  no  more."  Her 
weakness,  therefore,  so  to  speak,  lies  not  in  any  lack  of  power ;  but 
in  a  lamentable  want  of  exertion.  There  is  no  deficiency  of  nerve  to 
grasp  a  subject,  or  of  power  to  discuss,  or  of  keen  acumen  to  analyze 
it ;  but  there  is  indifference ;  and  I  think  it  reprehensible  to  give  us 
merely  the  spicy  fragrance  flung  off  from  the  cinnamon-tree  of  genius, 
while  the  principle  of  sweetness  in  concentrated  strength  still  lies 
hidden  in  the  heart.  Yet  if  you  should  undertake  to  impress  upon 
her  the  wrong  she  does  herself  by  trifling  away  gifts  so  precious,  she 
would  probably  laugh  archly  in  your  face,  and  say,  with  the  philoso 
phy  of  a  nature  rather  Sybaritic  in  its  composition,  "  It  is  pleasanter 
to  enjoy  than  to  labor,  more  especially  when  both  amount  to  the  same 
thing  at  last." 

As  a  litterateur  f  If  (to  borrow  the  simile  of  a  famous  critic)  the 
gifts  of  others  resemble  wealth,  hers  "  is  an  alchemy.  If  others,  so  to 
speak,  go  out  into  the  mind's  Australia,  and  collect  its  ores,  lying 
thick  as  morning  dews,  she  remains  at  home,  transmitting  all  she 
touches  into  gold."  Her  language,  in  its  elegance  and  rhythmic  flow, 
is  clear  and  lucid  as  the  pleasant  rush  of  a  summer  stream ;  and  it  has 
been  said  that  her  absolute  command  of  comprehensible  words  is  such, 
that  many  might,  with  advantage,  employ  her  to  translate  their 
Pedantese  into  plain  English.  I  have  seriously  objected  to  her  want 
of  study ;  yet  I  must  confess  that  what  she  writes,  most  of  us  can  com 
prehend.  We  are  not  compelled  to  sit  down  over  any  poem  of  hers, 
gazing  with  portentous  visage  and  a  critic's  eye  at  its  obscurity;  whis 
pering  at  last  under  our  breath  :  "  There  are  sunbeams  in  this  cucum- 
12 


090  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

her,  if  we  could  but  extract  them."  But  she  does  not  put  her  sun 
beams  into  the  cucumber  form.  No ;  by  all  means  let  us  take  our 
cucumbers  and  our  sunshine  separately. 

"  Lady  Tranquilla's"  chief  characteristic  in  literature  is  a  wonder 
ful  versatility,  to  which  scarce  any  vein  of  writing  comes  amiss,  as  is 
shown  by  poems,  tales,  sketches,  letters,  etc.,  written  not  only  at  her 
desk  "  en  c/rande  tenue,"  but  scribbled  in  pencil  under  some  wide- 
spreading  tree,  by  garden-bound  or  riverside;  in  short,  anywhere  and 
everywhere,  as  the  spirit  moves  her.  This  versatility  is  acknowledged 
by  our  people  in  the  calls  they  make  upon  her  powers.  It  fits  her 
also  to  supply  that  large  and  constant  drain  made  upon  her  time  and 
talents,  of  which  the  world  knows  nothing.  You  might  be  in  her 
house  for  months,  and  never  know  she  wrote  a  line,  for  aught  you 
heard  or  saw ;  yet  she  seems  to  be  a  species  of  perennial  fountain, 
from  which  hundreds  of  people  who  never  saw  her  draw  supplies  of 
strength  and  comfort ;  never  dreaming,  doubtless,  of  the  drain  they 
make  upon  this  "  sweet  water  spring,"  which  gives  out  its  supplies 
freshly  and  freely ;  which  asks  no  return,  and  thinks  of  no  replenish- ' 
ing,  save  what  it  draws  from  heaven.  A  lady,  a  thousand  miles  away, 
wants  a  May-day  speech  for  some  young  favorite;  an  agricultural  edi 
tor  wants  an  essay  on  a  given  topic ;  a  political  friend  wants  a  letter 
written  which  shall  "  bring  out  all  the  points ; "  a  stranger  widow 
wants  five  dollars;  a  young  lady  wants  a  situation  as  teacher;  a  novel 
ist  wants  a  book  noticed;  and  so  on,  almost  ad  in  fin  it  um;  yet  all  these 
applications  are  answered  with  a  tranquillity  equal  to  the  fountain's, 
and  a  patience  enduring  as  Job's.  I  have  expected  ere  this  to  see  her 
grow  rather  blase;  and  she  has  sufficient  knowledge  of  the  world  to 
make  her  so.  I  have  expected  to  see  her  grow  weary  of  its 

"  Dust  and  decay, 

Weary  of  throwing  her  soul-wealth  away, 
.         Weary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap;" 

but  that  time  seems  as  yet  to  linger  by  the  way.  In  this  connection, 
it  may  be  well  to  say  that  "Lady  Tranquilla"  is  accused  of  being  a 
great  favorite  with  contemporary  litterateurs.  She  has  probably  been 
more  be-rhymed  and  be-sonneted  than  any  other  poetess.  Her  popu 
larity  arises  from  the  fact  that  she  claims  no  especial  literary  honors, 
and  thus  arouses  no  jealousies.  Then,  too,  she  is  ever  ready  to  extend 
favors,  but  asks  none  in  return.  She  receives  innumerable  confidences. 


L.    VIRGINIA    FEENCH.  691 

but  never  confides.  N.  P.  Willis  says  that  "  to  listen  to  the  confi 
dences  of  others,  without  ever  thinking  it  worth  while  to  burden  them 
with  yours,  is  a  very  good  basis  for  a  friendship.  Nothing  bores  peo 
ple  more  than  to  return  their  secrets  with  your  own." 

Yes,  versatility  is  the  "  Lady  Tranquilla's  "  forte.  It  makes  her  a 
general  favorite.  It  renders  her  par  excellence  the  journalist.  It 
causes  her  critics  to  take  each  a  different  view.  As  for  instance,  Mrs. 
C.  A.  Warfield  regards  poetry  as  Mrs.  French's  strong  point,  and  says 
of  that  stinging  tribute,  "  Shermanized :  "  "  Never  sprang  cooler  and 
keener  sarcasm  from  more  tranquil  lips.  It  is  the  flash  of  the  yata 
ghan  from  a  velvet  sheath  —  the  cold,  clear  gleam  of  the  sword  from 
a  silver  scabbard." 

Mrs.  Julia  Pleasants  Creswell  takes  the  opposite  view,  and  insists 
that  "Mrs.  French  writes  the  best  prose,  with  the  strongest  sense  in  it, 
of  any  Southern  writer." 

That  enchanting  poetess,  Amelia  Welby,  for  years  previous  to  her 
death,  ceased  to  write.  It  is  affirmed  that  she  gave  as  a  reason,  that 
she  had  lost  the  power,  the  "  faculty  divine."  It  is  more  than  probable 
that  as  her  mind  matured  and  expanded,  she  felt  that  she  had  not  the 
power  to  express  what  she  had  keen  ability  to  feel,  and  I  have  imag 
ined  that  Mrs.  French  too  has  grown  away  from  the  past.  A  revolu 
tion  has  changed  us  as  a  people,  and  she  feels  that  our  present  needs 
can  scarce  be  "  bodied  forth  in  song."  She  feels  also  that  she  has 
power  to  write  for  a  purpose,  and  the  fact  that  those  seem  to  succeed 
best  who  write  for  no  purpose,  keeps  her  comparatively  silent.  Her 
broad  views  and  catholicity  of  character  fit  her  to  grapple  strongly 
with  many  moral  and  social  evils.  This  breadth  and  cosmopolitanism 
fits  her  for  "shooting  her  soul"  into  a  score  of  contradictory  charac 
ters  at  once,  and  a  novel  from  her  pen  would  be  unique. 

During  the  late  war,  by  which  she  in  common  with  all  of  her  South 
ern  sisters  was  a  sufferer  and  a  loser,  she  wrote  many  poems  and  pieces 
of  choice  prose  on  the  subjects  of  common  interest  —  distinguished 
from  most  of  contemporaneous  writing  by  their  tone  of  graceful  and 
scornful  satire,  and  entire  freedom  from  harshness  and  vituperation. 

Mrs.  French  has  in  MS.  a  valuable  addition  to  Southern  literature, 
in  the  shape  of  a  novel  written  during  and  about  the  war. 

Still  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  happy  in  her  domestic  relations,  as 
well  as  comparatively  prosperous — for  she  retains  her  delightful 
"  Forest  Home  "  and  landed  possessions,  it  is  sincerely  hoped  that  she 


692  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

may  put  forth  her  wing  once  more,  and  cleave  new  heights  of  unex 
plored  atmosphere. 

We  confidently  believe  that  Mrs.  French  is  capable,  in  her  maturity 
of  mind,  of  higher  successes  than  she  has  yet  achieved ;  and  that  her 
imagination,  like  Burke's,  grows  and  strengthens  with  her  years. 

This  gradual  culmination  of  powers  belongs  only  to  strong  natures, 
which  grow  like  the  oak-tree,  slowly  and  surely,  and  remain  vigorous 
and  green  when  their  frailer  companions  of  the  forest  lie  in  ruins. 


THE  ELOQUENCE  OF  RUINS. 

High  on  a  desert,  desolated  plain 

In  the  far  Orient,  a  stately  band 

Of  giant  columns  rise.     Above  the  sleep 

Of  devastated  cities,  mouldering, 

Yet  haughtily  they  stand;  grim  sentinels, 

Calling  the  watches  of  a  vanished  race, 

And  guarding  still  from  Ruin's  felt-shod  tread 

The  mutilated  chronicles  of  Eld. 

Heavy  with  melodies  all  vast  and  vague, 
Lifts  up  a  solemn  voice  where  Ages  lie 
Entombed  with  empires,  in  the  crumbled  pride 
Of  old  Byzantium.     Dark  Egypt's  lore 
Lies  in  her  catacombs ;   her  histories 
In  fallen  temples;   while  her  Pyramids, 
Like  ponderous  old  tomes  upon  the  sands, 
Teem  with  the  hidden  records  of  the  Past. 
Amid  their  gloomy  mysteries,  the  Sphinx, 
A  gaunt-eyed  oracle,  essays  to  speak, 
And  the  weird  whisper  of  her  stony  lip 
Sounds  o'er  the  tumult  of  the  rushing  years. 

Greece!  how  her  shattered  domes  reverberate 
The  thunders  of  a  thousand  gods,  that  dwelt 
On  Ida  and  Olympus !     Porticos 
That  droop  above  their  portals,  like  to  brows 
Of  meditative  marble  over  eyes 
Dim  with  the  haze  of  revery,  still  speak 
Of  ancient  sages;   and  her  pillars  tell 
Of  heroes  who  have  sought  the  Lethean  wave, 
And  shores  of  Asphodel.    Then,  rising  where 


L.    VIRGINIA    TRENCH.  693 

The  yellow  Tiber  flows,  some  stately  shaft, 

Like  a  proud  Koman  noble  in  the  halls 

Of  the  great  Forum,  stands  —  the  orator 

Of  nations  gone  to  dust.     The  obelisk, 

Girt  with  resistance,  gladiator-like, 

From  his  arena  challenges  a  host 

Of  stealthy-footed  centuries ! 

The  lone, 

Dark  circle  of  the  Druid,  with  its  stones 
Rugged  and  nameless,  hath  a  monotone 
Wild  as  the  runes  of  Sagas  at  the  shrine 
Of  Thor  and  Odin.     Slow  and  silently 
The  pallid  moonlight  creeps  along  the  walls 
In  the  old  abbey  shadow.     Timidly 
It  creepeth  up,  to  list  the  tales  they  tell 
Of  beauty  and  of  valor,  laid  to  sleep 
In  the  low,  vaulted  chancel.     Ivy-crowned, 
And  crumbling  to  decay,  IIOAV  loftily 
Rise  the  old  castle  towers!     Its  corridors 
Resound  with  elfin  echoes  as  the  bell, 
Wind-rocked  upon  its  turret,  sends  a  knell 
From  cornice  to  cavazion.     The  owl, 
A  dim-eyed  warder,  watches  in  his  tower; 
And  zephyr,  like  a  wandering  troubadour, 
Sports  on  the  ruined  battlement,  and  sings 
To  broken  bastion,  shattered  oriel, 
And  fallen  architrave. 

The  western  wild 

Spreads  out  before  us,  and  her  voice  of  might 
Shakes  the  old  wilderness.     Alone  it  swells, 
Where  tropic  bloom,  and  gray  corrosion  strive 
To  crush  the  deep  and  restless  mutterings 
Of  hoary-headed  ages.     Dim  and  strange, 
The  priest,  the  vestal,  and  the  dark  cazique 
Rise  on  the  Teocallis ;   and  below 
Flit  the  swart  shadows  of  the  nameless  tribes 
That  peopled  Iximaya.     Ruins  all  — 
Yet  mighty  in  their  magic  eloquence ! 

O   "  land  we  love ! "  O  mother,  with  the  dust 
And  ashes  on  thy  robe  and  regal  brow  — 
Deeper,  and  wilder,  more  melodious  far, 
The  voice  of  melancholy,  wailing  o'er 
Thy  desolated  homesteads!     That  awakes 


694  SOUTHLAND    W  R  I  T  E  U  S. 

Its  echo  in  the  memory ;   it  brings 
(Alas!   that  it  should  be  but  memory!) 
The  carol  of  the  robin — and  the  hum 
Of  the  returning  bee  —  the  winds  at  eve, 
And  the  low,  bell-like  tinkle  of  the  brook 
That  rippled  round  the  garden.    Then  we  see 
The  great  elm-shadow,  with  the  threshold  stone 
That  garnered  up  the  sunshine;   and  the  vine 
That  crept  around  the  colonnade,  and  bloomed, 
Close-clinging  as  a  love  unchangeable. 

We  dream  of  gay  boy-brothers,  sleeping  now 
'Neath  grasses  rank  on  lonely  battle-fields  — 
And  seem  to  feel,  perchance,  the  blessed  light 
Of  our  sweet  mother's  smile  —  the  holy  breath 
Of  a  good  father's  benison.    We  think 
Of  the  white  marbles  where  their  hearts  are  laid 
Down  to  a  dreamless  slumbering;  —  ah!   then 
Rush  the  thick,  blinding  tears  —  und  we  can  aee 
No  more! 


"MAMMY." 

A  Home  Picture  of  1860. 

Where  the  broad  mulberry  branches  hang  a  canopy  of  leaves, 

Like  an  avalanche  of  verdure,  drooping  o'er  the  kitchen  eaves ; 

And  the  sunshine  and  the  shadow  dainty  arabesques  have  made 

On  the  quaint,  old  oak  settle,  standing  in  the  pleasant  shade; 

Sits  good  "  Mammy,"  with  the  child'un,"  while  the  summer  afternoon 

Wears  the  dewy  veil  of  April  o'er  the  brilliancy  of  June. 

Smooth  and  snowy  is  the  kerchief,  lying  folded  with  an  air 

Of  matron  dignity  above  her  silver-sprinkled  hair; 

Blue  and  white  the  beaded  necklace,  used  "  of  Sundays  "  to  bedeck 

(A  dearly  cherished  amulet)  her  plump  and  dusky  neck ; 

Dark  her  neatly-ironed  apron,  of  a  broad  and  ample  size, 

Spreading  o'er  the  dress  of  "  homespun,"  with  its  many-colored  dyes. 

True,  her  lips  are  all  untutored ;  yet  how  genially  they  smile, 
And  how  eloquent  their  fervor,  praying,  "  Jesus  bless  de  chile ! " 
True,  her  voice  is  hoarse  and  broken ;  but  how  tender  its  replies  ! 
True,  her  hands  are  brown  and  withered ;  yet  how  loving  are  her  eyes  I 


L.    VIRGINIA    FRENCH.  G95 

She  has  thoughts  both  high  and  holy,  though  her  brow  is  dark  and  low, 
And  her  face  is  dusk  and  wrinkled,  but  her  soul  as  white  as  suuw.        ->J 

An  "  aristocrat "  is  "  Mammy,"  in  her  dignity  sedate ; 

"  Haught  as  Lucifer  "  to  "  white  trash,"  whom  she  cannot  tolerate ; 

Patronizing,  too,  to  "  Master,"  for  she  "  nussed  'im  when  a  boy ; " 

Familiar,  yet  respectful  to  the  "  Mistis ;  "  but  the  joy 

Of  her  bosom  is  "  de  child'un,"  and  delightedly  she  '11  boast 

Of  the  "born  blood"  of  her  darlings  —  "good  as  kings  and  queens  a'inost." 

There  she  sits  beneath  the  shadow,  crooning  o'er  some  olden  hymn, 
Watching  earnestly  and  willingly,  although  her  eyes  are  dim  ; 
Laughing  in  her  heart  sincerely,  yet  with  countenance  demure, 
Holding  out  before  "  her  babies  "  every  tempting  little  lure  — 
Noting  all  their  merry  frolics  with  a  quiet,  loving  gaze, 
Telling  o'er  at  night  to  "  Mistis  "  all  their  "  cunnin'  little  ways." 

Now  and  then  her  glance  will  wander  o'er  the  pastures  far  away, 
Where  the  tasselled  corn-fields  waving,  to  the  breezes  rock  and  sway, 
To  the  river's  gleaming  silver,  and  the  hazy  distance  where 
Giant  mountain-peaks  are  peering  through  an  azure  veil  of  air ; 
But  the  thrill  of  baby  voices  —  baby  laughter,  low  and  sweet, 
Recall  her  in  a  moment  to  the  treasures  at  her  feet. 

So  "  rascally,"  so  rollicking,  our  bold  and  sturdy  boy, 

In  all  his  tricksy  waywardness,  is  still  her  boast  and  joy ; 

She'll  chase  him  through  the  shrubberies  —  his  mischief  mood  to  cure; 

"  Hi !  whar  dat  little  rascal  now?  —  de  b'ars  will  git  'im  shure !  " 

When  caught,  she  '11  stoutly  swing  him  to  her  shoulder,  and  in  pride 

Go  marching  round  the  pathways  —  "jus'  to  see  how  gran'  he  ride." 

And  the  "  Birdie  "  of  our  bosoms  —  ah !  how  soft  and  tenderly 
Bows  good  "  Mammy's  "  mother-spirit  to  her  baby  witchery ! 
(All  to  her  is  dear  devotion  whom  the  angels  bend  to  bless, 
All  our  thoughts  of  her  are  btended  with  a  holy  tenderness ;) 
Coaxing  now,  and  now  caressing  —  saying,  with  a  smile  and  kiss, 
"  Jus'  for  Mammy  —  dat 's  a  lady  —  will  it  now  ?  "  do  that  or  this. 

On  the  sweet,  white-tufted  clover,  worn  and  weary  with  their  play, 
Toying  with  the  creamy  blossoms,  now  my  little  children  lay ; 
Harnessed  up  with  crimson  ribbons,  wooden  horses,  side  by  side, 
"  Make  believe  "  to  eat  their  "  fodder  "  —  (blossoms  to  their  noses  tied.) 
Near  them  stands  the  willow  wagon  —  in  it  "  Birdie's  "  mammoth  doll, 
And  our  faithful  "  Brave  "  beside  them,  noble  guardian  over  all. 


696  SOUTHLAND    WHITER  8. 

Above  them  float  the  butterflies,  around  them  hum  the  bees, 
And  birdlings  warble,  darting  in  and  out  among  the  trees  ; 
The  kitten  sleeps  at  "  Mammy's  "  side,  and  two  grown  rabbits  pass, 
Hopping  close  along  the  paling,  stealing  through  the  waving  grass ; 
Gladsome  tears  blue  eyes  are  filling,  and  a  watching  mother  prays, 

bless  '  Mammy '  and  my  children  in  these  happy,  halcyon  days." 


SHERMANIZED ! 

This  poem  was  written  for,  and  read  by  Miss  Lucy  Powell  Harris,  at  a  concert  given 
by  the  pupils  of  the  Houston  Street  Female  High  School,  in  Atlanta,  Georgia,  May 
1st,  1866. 

In  this  city  of  Atlanta,  on  a  dire  and  dreadful  day, 

'Mid  the  raging  of  the  conflict,  'mid  the  thunder  of  the  fray  — 

In  the  blaze  of  burning  roof-trees  —  under  clouds  of  smoke  and  flame  — 

Sprang  a  new  WORD  into  being,  from  a  stern  and  dreaded  name : 

Gaunt,  and  grim,  and  like  a  spectre  rose  that  WORD  before  the  world, 

From  a  land  of  bloom  and  beauty  into  ruin  rudely  hurled  — 

From  a  people  scourged  by  exile  —  from  a  city  ostracized  — 

Pallas-like  it  sprang  to  being,  and  that  WORD  is  —  Shermanized  ! 

And  forevermore  hereafter,  where  the  fierce  destroyer  reigns, 

Where  destruction  pours  her  lava  over  cultivated  plains  — 

Where  want  and  woe  hold  carnival  —  where  bitter  blight  and  blood 

Sweep  over  prosperous  nations  in  a  strong,  relentless  flood ; 

Where  the  golden  crown  of  harvest  trodden  into  ashes  lies, 

And  desolation  stares  abroad  with  famine-frenzied  eyes  — 

Where  the  wrong  with  iron  sceptre  crushes  every  right  we  prized, 

Shall  the  people  groan  in  anguish  —  "  God  !  the  right  is  Shermanized  !  " 

MAN  may  rule  the  raids  of  ruin  —  lead  the  legions  that  despoil  — 
From  the  lips  of  honest  labor  dash  the  guerdon  of  its  toil  — 
"  Sow  with  salt  "  the  smiling  valleys,  and  on  every  breezy  height 
Kindle  balefires  of  destruction,  lurid  in  the  solemn  night ; 
He  may  sacrifice  the  aged,  and  exult  when  woman  stands 
'Mid  the  sunken,  sodden  ashes  of  her  home,  with  palsied  hands 
Droopiag  over  hungered  children  —  man  may  thus  immortalize 
His  name  with  haggard  infamy  —  his  watchword,  "  Shermanize  !  " 

Nobler  deeds  are  WOMAN'S  province  —  she  must  not  destroy,  but  build; 
She  must  bring  the  urns  of  plenty  with  the  wine  of  pleasure  filled ; 
She  must  be  the  "  sweet  restorer"  of  this  sunny  Southern  land  ; 
Fill  our  schools,  rebuild  our  churches,  take  the  feeble  by  the  hand, 


L.    VIRGINIA    FRENCH.  697 

Aid  the  press,  befriend  the  teacher,  give  to  want  its  daily  bread ; 

And  never,  never  fail  to  weave  above  our  "  noble  dead  " 

The  laurel-garland  due  to  deeds  of  valor's  high  emprize, 

And  won  by  men  whom,  failure  could  not  sink,  or  —  Shermanize  ! 

With  her  wakened  love  of  labor  let  her  labor  on  in  love  ; 
Still,  in  softnetes  and  in  stillness,  as  the  starry  circles  move  — 
Bearing  light  and  bringing  gladness  from  the  leaden  clouds  unfurled, 
As  the  soft  rise  of  the  sunlight  bringeth  morning  to  the  world ; 
Grandly  urging  on  endeavor,  as  the  gates  of  day  unclose, 
Till  the  "  solitary  place  again  shall  blossom  as  the  rose ;  " 
And  woman  —  THE  KEBUILDER  —  shall  be  freely  eulogized 
By  the  triumph  of  her  people  —  then  no  longer  Shermanized. 

God  bless  our  noble  Georgia  !     Though  her  soil  was  overrun, 
And  her  lands  in  desolation  laid  beneath  an  autumn  sun ; 
With  the  signal  shout  "  To  action  !  "  like  the  boom  of  signal  guns, 
She  has  roused  the  iron  mettle  of  her  strong  and  stalwart  sons. 
May  her  daughters  aid  that  effort  to  rebuild  and  to  restore, 
Working  on  for  Southern  freedom  as  they  never  worked  before  ! 
May  our  Georgia  as  a  laggard  never  once  be  stigmatized, 
And  her  PEOPLE,  PRESS,  or  PULPIT  never  more  be  Shermanized ! 


THE  AUCTIONEER. 

Up  with  the  red  flag!  wave  it  wide 

Over  the  gay  and  fair  ; 
O'er  things  of  love  and  things  of  pride 

It  flaunteth  everywhere. 
Bring  the  hammer  —  thet  auction-block, 

Gather  ye  hearts  of  stone  — 
"Here's  excellent  bargains,  and  premium  stock  — 

Going  —  going  —  gone  !  " 

Wrecks  of  a  ruined  household  band 

Cast  on  a  silent  shore; 
Heart-breaks  scattered  along  the  sand, 

Where  the  tide  comes  up  no  more. 
Amid  the  relics  the  auctioneer 

Standeth  —  a  wrecker  lone ; 
Bidding  them  off  with  a  jest  and  jeer  — 

"  Going  —  going  —  gone  !  " 


698  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Here's  a  mirror  —  a  faithful  friend  — 

For,  without  a  shade  of  guile, 
It  tells  when  passions  the  dark  brow  bend, 

And  it  gives  you  smile  for  smile. 
No  more  —  no  more  will  it  counsels  lend  — 

Hal  hark  to  that  flippant  tone  — 
"How  much  f  —  how  much  for  this  faithful  friend  t 

Going  —  going  —  gone  I " 

Here  is  a  purple  divan  —  soft, 

And  circled  with  silken  fringe; 
Here  the  lord  of  the  manor  slumbered  oft, 

And  the  couch's  richest  tinge 
Was  dull  and  cold  to  the  golden  shower 

Which  over  his  visions  shone: 
"  Who  bidsf  —  ivho  bids  for  the  dreams  of  power  t 

Going  —  going  —  gone ! " 

A  pendule  strikes  —  with  a  dreamy  chime, 

Like  that  which  the  spirit  hears 
In  the  notes  of  a  curious,  quaint  old  rhyme, 

That  telleth  of  bygone  years. 
But  the  owner's  passed  to  another  clime, 

His  last  sad  sands  are  run : 
"How  much  f  —  how  much  for  the  wings  of  time  f 

Going  —  going  —  gone ! " 

Costly  lamps :  when  the  golden  spire 

Rose  o'er  the  festal  board, 
How  dim  it  shone  to  the  eyes  of  fire, 

Where  Love's  sweet  light  was  stored ! 
But  those  eyes  grew  dark  —  like  stars  that  roam 

Afar  from  the  "great  white  throne:" 
"Who  bids?  —  who*  bids  for  the  lights  of  hornet 

Going  —  going  —  gone ! " 

Statues,  too :  here 's  an  angel  band 

Just  parting  a  curtain's  fold, 
While  a  cherub  places  a  flowery  band 

In  the  fair  young  sleeper's  hold ; 
Then  a  laughing  boy,  with  his  two  white  doves, 

Carved  in  the  Parian  stone : 
"How  much?  —  hoir  much  for  the  household  loves  f 

Going  —  going  —  gone !  " 


L.    VIRGINIA     F  R  E  X  C  H.  699 

A  dainty  volume,  clasped  with  gold, 

Its  links  still  bright  and  new ; 
It  whispered  a  love  that  could  ne'er  be  told, 

And  it  bound  the  giver  true : 
On  the  first  blank  leaf  it  is  written  now  — 

"Thine  — thine  alone!" 
"  Who  bids  f  who  bids  for  the  broken  vow  ? 

Going  —  going  —  gone !  " 

And  here  is  a  picture  —  pale  and  fair, 

What  a  soul  looks  from  its  eyes 
Through  shadowy  clouds  of  golden  hair, 

Like  a  peri  from  the  skies! 
So  like  to  her  in  the  church-yard  laid 

When  the  autumn  rains  came  on : 
"  How  much  for  a  beauty  that  cannot  fade  f 

Going  —  going  —  gone !  " 

Here  is  the  carpet,  with  flowers  dense, 

Her  fairy  feet  once  trod, 
And  the  little  cradle-bed  from  whence 

Her  baby  went  up  to  God. 
Here  is  the  harp  with  its  broken  strings 

Her  white  hand  moved  upon : 
"  Who  bids  f  who  bids  for  this  lot  of  things  f 

Going  —  going  —  gone !  " 

Thank  God,  he  cannot  sell  the  heart  — 

We  bury  our  treasures  there ; 
Warm  tears  that  up  to  the  eyelids  start, 

And  the  baby's  lisping  prayer; 
Songs  that  we  loved  in  a  bygone  day  — 

Sweet  words,  many  a  one; 
We  bury  them  deep  —  where  none  may  say, 

"  Going —  going  —  gone !  " 


THE  BEOKEN  SENTENCE. 

A.   Tribute  to  the  late  Lieutenant  Herndon. 

"  A  ship  went  out  upon  the  sea, 

A  noble  bark,  with  a  gallant  crew  "  — 

And  in  herself  a  richly-freighted  argosy  of  life   and  love  —  the  ill-fated 
"Central  America."     That  dark  and  terrible  picture  of  her  going  down 


700  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

amid  surging,  midnight  sens,  which  has  been  painted  by  inexorable  fate,  and 
himur  upon  the  walls  of  time's  proud  temple,  is  one  upon  which  our  whole 
country  has  looked  with  "hated  breath  "  and  tear-dimuied  eyes.  Then,  afar 
over  the  ocean  waves,  "sailed  the  corsair,  death,"  and,  gathered  in  that 
dread  night-picture,  there  is  the  armada  of  the  storm-king  —  the  wrathful 
sky  above,  and  the  black  goal  of  doom  "a  hundred  fathoms  down."  Hut, 
notwithstanding  all  their  terrific  grandeur,  how  small,  comparatively,  is  the 
meed  of  attention  given  to  those  dread  details!  Columbia's  eagle  eye  is 
upon  her  noble  son  ;  the  brave  commander,  the  gallant  seaman,  the  humble 
Christian,  the  immortal  HERNDON.  It  is  as  though  that  great  picture  con 
tained  but  one  solitary  human  figure  —  one  single  object  of  interest  whereon 
the  soul  may  centre  her  intensest  gaze.  We  see  him,  as,  with  that  heroic  de 
votion  to  woman,  which  was  one  of  his  first  characteristics,  he  provides  for 
their  safety,  until  every  woman  and  child  has  left  his  shattered  vessel ;  we 
see  him  don  his  uniform,  the  garb  in  which  he  so  long  had  served  his  coun 
try,  and  take  his  last  stand  at  the  wheel-house ;  we  see  him  uncover  to  the 
kinir  of  terrors,  as  the  doomed  ship  fetches  her  last  lurch;  with  tearful, 
straining  gaze,  we  see  him  signal  an  approaching  boat,  and  order  her  to 
keep  off  and  be  saved,  while  he  himself  went  down ;  to  the  last,  mindful  of 
others  and  forgetful  of  self —  the  soul  of  a  warrior,  and  the  heart  of  a  wo 
man! 

Beautiful,  heroic,  and  self-sacrificing  are  such  scenes;  but  there  is,  in  this 
connection,  another  still  more  beautiful  and  sublime ;  it  is  thus  related  by 
his  kinsman,  Lieutenant  Maury  : 

"  As  one  of  the  last  boats  was  about  to  leave  the  ship,  her  commander  gave  his  watch 
to  a  passenger,  with  the  request  that  it  might  be  delivered  to  his  wife.  He  wished  to 
charge  him  with  a  message  to  her  also,  but  his  utterance  was  choked.  '  Tell  her  —  '  he 
said :  unable  to  proceed,  he  bent  down  his  head,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  for  a 
moment,  as  if  in  prayer,  for  he  was  a  devout  man,  and  a  true  Christian.  In  that  mo 
ment,  brief  as  it  was,  he  endured  the  greatest  agony.  But  it  was  over  now.  His  crowd 
ing  thoughts  no  doubt  had  been  of  friends  and  home;  its  desolation;  a  beloved  wife 
and  lovely  daughter,  dependent  alone  for  support  upon  him.  God  and  his  country 
would  care  for  them  now.  Honor  and  duty  required  him  to  stick  to  his  ship,  and  he 
saw  that  she  must  go  down." 

"  Tell  her  —  "  he  began,  but  the  thousand  waves  of  an  overflowing  heart 
came  rushing  over  him,  like  "  high,  fierce  tides  trampling  in  upon  low,  lee 
shores,"  and  the  last  cry  of  his  great  soul  was  drowned  amid  the  tumult. 
Then  and  there  he  had  "  tasted  of  the  bitterness  of  death,"  and  it  was  past. 
As  we  look  upon  him  now,  we  pause  in  actual  awe  before  the  picture  imaged 
in  the  mind.  "  Tell  her  —  "  said  he,  but  human  language  had  no  words  to 
body  forth  the  love,  the  aspiration,  the  anguish  of  that  noble  soul  in  this, 
its  hour  of  terrible  trial.  And  so  the  strong  man  bowed  his  head  upon  his 
hands,  and  bent  like  a  reed  before  the  tempest,  feeling  only  how,  in  such  an 


L.    VIRGINIA    FRENCH.  701 

hour,  heart-throbs  scorn  the  mockery  of  words.  Undaunted  by  the  dread 
danger  —  undismayed  when  all  hearts  were  failing  —  gazing  unblenching  in 
the  very  face  of  destruction  —  ready  to  take  death  by  the  hand  and  disarm 
him  of  his  terrors,  he  bowed  down  unmanned,  and  overwhelmed  by  one 
simple,  loving  memory  of  her.  And  now  what  remains  to  be  said  ?  What 
could  be  said,  which  in  pathos  and  in  power  would  not  fall  far,  far  below  the 
single  and  simple  reality  of  that  broken  and  forever  unfinished  sentence  — 
"  Tell  her—  "? 

"  Tell  her  "  —  what  f  Ah !  in  vain  we  speculate.  In  vain  we  strive 
through  blinding  tears  to  read  his  heart,  and  say  for  him  what  he  could  not 
say  for  himself.  And  it  is  best  as  it  is.  Let  us  leave  it  so,  nor  dare  to  dese 
crate  with  our  poor  surmises  the  broken  column  which  the  master  artist  was 
unable  to  complete.  But,  do  we  say  forever  unfinished  f  Will  he  never  tell 
her? 

Far  away  in  some  sun-bright  "  Isle  of  Balm,"  more  beautiful  and  more 
radiant  than  the  Amazonian  forests  through  which  he  once  wandered,  will 
not  the  language  of  the  immortal  give  him  power  to  utter  all  that  which  the 
mortal  had  essayed  in  vain  ?  Or  in  that  better  land  will  there  be  a  "  fulness 
of  joy  "  so  soul-absorbing,  so  complete  and  perfect,  that  no  remembrance  of 
a  troubled  past,  no  memory  of  an  unfinished  mission,  no  shadow  of  our 
imperfect  life  shall  ever  dare  intrude?  Who  of  us  can  tell? 

Said  his  wife,  upon  the  first  tidings  of  the  shipwreck :  "  I  know  he  has 
perished.  He  will,  stand  by  his  ship  to  the  last,  and  save  others  by  the  sac 
rifice  of  himself !"  A  noble  trust  —  and  right  nobly  redeemed !  She  knew 
he  could  not  be  among  the  rescued,  and  still  be  "  himself."  And  what  must 
be  her  feelings  now,  as  she  gazes  upon  that  parting  memento,  as  she  thinks 
of  the  last  time  he  held  it  in  his  hand  —  the  wild,  terrific  scene  around  him, 
and  those  two  solitary  syllables  which  constitute  his  dying  words !  To  her, 
now  it  is  as  silent  as  the  loved  lips  of  him  who  sent  it  from  that  scene  of 
death ;  and  justly  so  —  for  why  should  it  mark  time  to  her  whose  eternity 
began  with  his,  who  was  the  life  of  her  life,  and  soul  of  her  soul  ? 

We  leave  her  with  her  treasures  —  a  broken  sentence  and  a  silent  keep 
sake  —  the  first  sounding  ever  in  her  heart  like  the  murmur  of  an  ocean- 
shell  cast  forth  upon  a  lonely  shore,  while  the  slender  hands  of  the  last, 
having  ceased  to  chronicle  the  flight  of  time,  are  ever  pointing  her  away 
into  the  opening  ages  of  eternity. 

And  have  we  yet  no  word  to  say  for  him  ?  The  "  heart  grows  full  to 
weeping"  as  we  linger  above  his  honored  memory  —  but  a  nation's  acclaim 
is  his  proudest  eulogium,  and  woman's  t^ars  his  most  fitting  epitaph.  As 
Nelson  fell,  he  exclaimed :  "  Thank  God !  I  have  done  my  duty ! "  As 
Webster  passed  the  dread  portal  which  opens  into  the  valley  of  shadows,  he 
murmured :  "  I  still  live !  "  As  Napoleon  gathered  up  life's  failing  forces  to 
battle  with  the  last  enemy,  he  shouted  feebly:  "  Tete  d'armeef"  But  what 
said  the  heroic  Herndon  of  himself  f  Nothing.  He  neither  encourages  him- 


702  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

self  with  tlit>  knowledge  of  duties  well  performed  —  no,  he  leaves  his  deeds 
to  speak  for  him  ;  nor  solaces  himself  with  the  idea  that  he  will  hereafter 
live  in  tin-  hearts  of  his  countrymen  —  no,  he  leaves  that  for  them  to  say; 
nor  does  he  proudly  assume  his  province  of  command,  and  go  forth  to  meet 
death  as  kinjr  meets  king  in  battle;  nay,  he  uncovers  to  the  last  conqueror, 
acknowledging  him  the  vicegerent  of  God,  and  with  a  brave  heart  and  firm 
faith  goes  down  with  him  silently,  and  grandly  too,  into  the  dark  abyss  of 
ocean,  and  the  darker  abyss  of  an  unknown  eternity. 

Silent  —  silent  all!  And  if  we  say  to  the  great  sea,  and  the  wild  winds, 
and  the  overlooking  skies,  "Where  is  he  now?  "  they  are  silent  also.  Per 
haps,  like  drifting  sea-weed,  cast  upon  some  distant  strand,  his  bones  bleach 
beneath  the  fiery  sun  of  the  tropics;  perhaps  laid  softly  down  by  gently 
bearing  waters,  where 

"coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
And  the  cold  sea-maids  sit  to  sun  their  streaming  hair  ; " 

perhaps  carried  away  by  the  impetuous  surge  to  regions  where  "night  and 
death"  have  built  their  thrones  —  where  giant  icebergs  go  thundering  down 
the  deep  —  where  Euroclydon  rolls  forth  its  "stern  triumphant  psalms," 
and  beneath  shattered  mast  and  mouldering  sail  sleep  the  old  Vikings  of  the 
Northern  Sea.  In  our  cemeteries,  "stone  spells  to  stone  its  weary  tale"  — 
we  read  records  of  the  loved  and  lost  as  the  long  funeral  train  is  passing  by, 
and  the  dirge  is  wailing  for  the  dead;  but  who  dares  follow  him  to  the  grave, 
who  went  down  to  death  amid  the  battle  of  the  elements ;  whose  funeral 
train  was  long  lines  of  marching  billows,  and  whose  burial  psalm  was  the 
volleying  thunder  and  the  sounding  storm?  We  may  enter  the  city's  splen 
did  mausoleums,  and  read  engraven  on  brass  and  marble  the  virtues  of  the 
dead ;  we  may  sit  down  by  some  lone  grave  in  the  forest,  whose  only  monu 
ment  is.  a  cluster  of  snowy  lilies,  on  which  the  morning  dewdrops  write  their 
transient  epitaph ;  but  who  shall  venture  down,  even  in  thought,  to  the 
"  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean,"  where  now  sleeps  the  heart  which  bore 
up  bravely  against  terror,  and  danger,  and  death,  but  broke  in  the  struggle 
to  utter  one  little  sentence  in  loving  guise,  and  so  left  it  forever  unsaid?  The 
winds  and  the  waves  will  bring  no  answer  to  the  questioning  voice:  "Where 
i<  he  now?"  but  we  may  lay  our  hands  upon  our  hearts,  and  answer  softly, 
and  truly  too:  "He  is  here!  he  dwells  forever  in  the  great  heart  of  his 
country  ;  "  and  while  we  answer  thus,  we  also  murmur  meekly :  "  Our  God 
has  taken  that  noble  spirit  into  his  eternal  rest ! " 


MRS.  ANNIE  CHAMBERS  KETCHUM* 

IF  genuine  admiration  for  Mrs.  Ketchum's  genius,  and  the  same 
admiration  mingled  with  warm  personal  regard  for  herself  as  a 
Christian  gentlewoman  and  ardent  friend,  could  constitute  fitness  for 
the  labor  of  love  through  courtesy  assigned  me,  then  this  sketch  would 
be  among  the  most  interesting  of  all  these  narratives  of  "  Southland 
Writers." 

It  has  never  been  the  present  writer's  good  fortune  to  meet  in  person 
the  lady  whose  name  stands  at  the  head  of  the  -present  article,  but 
several  years  of  familiar  correspondence  originating  in  a  business 
way,  when  Mrs.  Ketchum  was  at  the  head  of  the  "  Lotus,"  (an  enter 
taining  magazine  established  at  Memphis  in  1858  or  '59,)  has  afforded 
more  than  a  passing  glimpse  of  that  earnest,  fervent  nature  which  ap 
pears  in  everything  that  emanates  from  her  pen,  and  constitutes  her, 
according  to  my  ability  of  criticism,  the  first  poetess  of  the  South  — 
unless  we  may  place  Miss  Crean  in  the  same  rank  with  her. 

Of  Mrs.  Ketchum's  prose- writings,  I  am  not  qualified  to  speak  in 
detail.  The  "  Ladies'  Home,"  edited  jointly  by  Mrs.  French  and  Dr. 
Powell,  gave  us,  indeed,  extracts  from  "  Nelly  Bracken,"  her  only  pub 
lished  prose  volume,  unless  I  mistake,  containing  specimens  of  a  style 
simple,  terse,  vigorous,  and  devoid  of  mannerism  ;  the  "  Lotus  "  edito 
rials  were,  oftentimes,  tender  and  touching  —  imbued  with  a  delicate 
pathos,  whatever  the  theme ;  and  of  her  letters  —  enchanting,  artless, 
soul-breathing  —  I  can  only  say  that  they  seem  to  me  the  perfection  of 
epistolary  writing.  Poetry,  however,  seems  to  be  Mrs.  Ketchum's 
natural  element,  and  it  is  in  rhythm  that  her  peculiar  bent  of  mind 
and  feeling  seeks  its  outlet. 

My  first  acquaintance  with  her  name  and  writings  was  through  a 
poem  which  appeared  in  the  "Richmond  Enquirer"  —  copied  into 
that  paper  from  the  "  New  York  Churchman,"  to  which  it  was  origin 
ally  contributed. 

The  lines  struck  me  as  breathing  the  very  soul  of  poetry  and  fervent 
prayer;  and,  by  the  way,  this  religious  element  pervades  almost  every- 

*  Contributed  by  Miss  Mary  J.  S.  Upshur,  of  Virginia. 

703 


704  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

thing  she  has  written,  exerting,  as  I  have  cause  to  believe,  a  wide  in 
fluence  upon  her  daily  life.  The  article  alluded  to  is  copied  entire, 
thus: 

THE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER. 

They  sleep.    Athwart  my  white 
Moon-marhh'd  casement,  with  her  solemn  mien 
Silently  watching  o'er  their  rest  serene, 

Gazeth  the  star-eyed  night. 

My  girl  —  sedate,  or  wild, 
By  turns  —  as  playful  as  a  summer  breeze, 
Or  grave  as  night  on  starlit  Southern  seas, 

Serene,  strange  woman-child. 

My  boy,  my  trembling  star! 
The  whitest  lamb  in  April's  tenderest  fold, 
The  bluest  flower-bell  in  the  shadiest  wold, 

His  fitting  emblems  are. 

They  are  but  two,  and  all 
My  lonely  heart's  arithmetic  is  done 
When  these  are  counted.     High  and  holy  One, 

Oh,  hear  my  trembling  call ! 

I  ask  not  wealth  nor  fame 
For  these  my  jewels.     Diadem  and  wreath 
Soothe  not  the  aching  brow  that  throbs  beneath, 

Nor  cool  its  fever-flame. 

I  ask  not  length  of  life 
Nor  earthly  honors.     Weary  are  the  ways 
The  gifted  tread,  unsafe  the  world's  best  praise, 

And  keen  its  strife. 

I  ask  not  that  to  me 

Thou  spare  them,  though  they  dearer,  dearer  be 
Than  rain  to  deserts,  spring-flowers  to  the  bee, 

Or  sunshine  to  the  sea. 

But  kneeling  at  their  feet, 

While  smiles  like  summer-light  on  shaded  streams 
Are  gleaming  from  their  glad  and  sinless  dreams, 

I  would  my  prayer  repeat. 


ANNIE    CHAMBERS    KETCHUM.  705 

In  that  alluring  land, 

The  future  —  where,  amid  green,  stately  bowers, 
Ornate  with  proud  and  crimson-flushing  flowers, 

Pleasure,  with  smooth  white  hand, 

Beckons  the  young  away 

From  glen  and  hill-side  to  her  banquet  fair  — 
Sin,  the  grim  she-wolf,  coucheth  in  her  lair, 

Eeady  to  seize  her  prey. 

The  bright  and  purpling  bloom 
Of  nightshade  and  acanthus  cannot  hide 
The  charred  and  bleaching  bones  that  are  denied 

Taper,  and  chrism,  and  tomb. 

Lord,  in  this  midnight  hour 
I  bring  my  lambs  to  thee.     Oh !  by  thy  truth, 
Thy  mercy,  save  them  from  th'  envenomed  tooth 

And  tempting  poison -flower! 

.«  O  Crucified  and  Crowned, 

Keep  us !    We  have  no  shield,  no  guide  but  thee. 
Let  sorrows  come  —  let  Hope's  last  blossom  be 
By  Griefs  dark  tempest  drowned ; 

But  lead  us  by  thy  hand, 
O  gentlest  Shepherd,  till  we  rest  beside 
The  still,  clear  waters,  in  the  pastures  wide 

Of  thine  own  sinless  land ! 

The  "  Home  Journal  "  published  Mrs.  Ketchum's  "  Christmas  Bal 
lad,"  of  which  her  beloved  "  Benny  "  was  the  infant  hero  —  Benny, 
whose  pious  youth  gave  such  high  promise  of  future  usefulness  and 
parental  satisfaction  in  his  career  through  life,  whose  last  Christmas 
(of  1857)  found  him  keeping  the  great  birthday  in  his  Father's  house 
of  "many  mansions."  While  he  sang  the  angel's  song  there,  was 
there  not  one  on  earth  whose  heart-throbs  kept  time  to  the  beat  of 
that  Christmas  carol  in  its  concluding  lines  ? 

"He  is  sleeping  —  brown  and  silken 

Lie  the  lashes,  long  and  meek, 
Like  caressing,  clinging  shadows, 

On  his  plump  and  peachy  cheek ; 
13 


706  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

And  I  bend  above  him,  weeping 

Thankful  tears,  oh,  undefiled! 
For  a  woman's  crown  of  glory, 

For  the  blessing  of  a  child ! " 

An  autograph  copy  lies  before  me  as  I  write,  bearing  far  back  to 
the  days  when  it  was  penned  at  peaceful  "Dunrobin,"  Mrs.  Ketchum's 
war-ruined  home,  near  Memphis.  I  am  sorely  tempted  to  quote 
largely  from  one  and  another  of  the  valued  letters  that  also  came 
from  thence,  especially  those  relating  to  the  war  time,  and  her  views 
of  the  South  and  its  cause,  in  which  her  whole  soul  was  merged ;  nor 
can  I,  indeed,  wholly  resist  inaugurating  my  transgressions  (for 
which  I  hope  to  be  pardoned)  by  an  extract  from  one  bearing  date  in 
May,  '61.  Accompanying  it  carne  the  MS.  of  a  stirring  battle-song, 
copied  below,  which  appeared  in  the  "  Norfolk  Argus  "  a  short  time 
after.  One  of  the  principal  inducements  to  make  the  extract  is  to 
indicate  somewhat  of  the  inspiration  prompting  many  kindred  pro 
ductions  to  that  I  shall  presently  copy,  which  authorship  induced  the 
Federal  commandant  at  Memphis  to  refuse  Mrs.  Ketchum,  later,  a 
pass  beyond  the  lines  —  she  in  a  state  of  health  vacillating  between 
life  and  death,  and  withal  in  deep  affliction  — "  because  of  her  being  a 
rebel  song-writer." 

"  We  had  yesterday  a  frightful  storm.  Four  hours  preceding  it,  there 
liung  a  thick,  gray  mist  along  the  horizon,  and  the  air  was  so  still  that  the 
nervous  aspen-leaves  hung  motionless.  I  looked  from  my  window  into  the 
stagnant  sky. 

"  I  thought  of  the  stillness  in  our  political  atmosphere  just  now  —  the  sure 
precursor  of  coming  peril ;  and  when  the  elements  opened  their  batteries  at 
length,  and  the  tall,  stout  trees  in  the  wood  bowed  and  broke  before  their 
fury,  I  shuddered  to  think  of  the  brave  and  noble  that  must  yield  up  their 

lives  in  the  coming  conflict.  I  do  not  say  these  things  to ,  my  pride ! 

I  will  gird  on  his  sword,  God  bless  him !  I  will  show  him  I  too  am  worthy 
of  the  name  we  inherit  alike  from  the  hero  who  died  in  the  far-off  bygone. 
But  to  you,  a  woman,  brave-hearted  but  tender,  I  may  say  that  I  can  some 
times  scarcely  see  for  tears. 

"  He  is  appointed  to  the  artillery  service  of  the  State,  our  Governor  being 
dt-irous  to  have  the  artillery  commanded  by  West  Point  gentlemen  entirely. 
His  regiment,  commanded  by  Colonel  McCown,  will  march  the  1st  of  June. 
The  City  of  Memphis  seizes  every  vessel  bound  North.  Yesterday  we  cap 
tured  three  prizes. 

'*  Yesterday,  when came  home  with  so  much  war  news  —  I  allude 


ANNIE    CHAMBERS    KETCHUM.  707 

to  the  seizures,  and  local  and  State  preparations  —  I  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  to  blow  my  individual  bugle  just  a  little,  to  the  extent  of  the 
war-song  I  enclose  you." 


BATTLE-CALL. 

Nee  temere  nee  timide. 
Dedicated  to  her  brave  countrymen,  the  Cavaliers  of  the  South. 

Gentlemen  of  the  South, 

Gird,  on  your  flashing  swords ! 
Darkly  along  your  borders  fair 

Gather  the  ruffian  hordes. 
Ruthless  and  fierce  they  come, 

Even  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
To  blast  the  glory  of  your  land, 

Gentlemen  of  the  South  1 

Eide  forth  in  your  stately  pride, 

Each  bearing  on  his  shield 
Ensigns  your  fathers  won  of  yore 

On  many  a  well-fought  field. 
Let  this  be  your  battle-cry, 

Even  to  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Cor  unum,  via  una  !    Onward  1 

Gentlemen  of  the  South ! 

Brave  knights  of  a  knightly  race, 

Gordon  and  Chambers  and  Grey, 
Teach  the  base  minions  of  the  North 

How  valor  dares  the  fray  ! 
Let  them  read  on  each  spotless  shield, 

Even  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Decori  decus  addit  avito, 

Gentlemen  of  the  South  I 

Morrison,  Douglas,  Stuart, 

.Erskine  and  Bradford  and  West, 
Your  gauntlets  on  many  a  hill  and  plain 

Have  stood  the  battle's  test. 
Animo  non  astutia! 

March  to  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Heirs  of  the  brave  dead  centuries, 

Gentlemen  of  the  South ! 


708  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Call  out  y<>ur  stalwart  men, 

Workers  in  brass  and  steel, 
Bid  the  s\v;irt   :irti-aiis  come  forth 

At  sound  of  the  trumpet's  peal. 
Give  thorn  your  war-cry,  Erskine ! 

ri'thtf  to  the  cannon's  mouth; 
Bid  the  men  Forward,  Douglas !     Forward  I 

Yeomanry  of  the  South! 

Brave  hunters!  ye  have  met 

The  fierce  black  bear  in  the  fray, 
Ye  have  trailed  the  panther  night  by  night, 

Ye  have  chased  the  fox  by  day! 
Your  prancing  chargers  pant 

To  dash  at  the  gray  wolf's  mouth; 
Your  arms  are  sure  of  their  quarry.     Onward! 

Gentlemen  of  the  South! 

Fight  that  the  lowly  serf 

And  the  high-born  lady  still 
May  bide  in  their  proud  dependency, 

Free  subjects  of  your  will ! 
Teach  the  base  North  how  ill — 

At  the  belching  cannon's  mouth  — 
He  fares  who  touches  your  household  gods, 

Gentlemen  of  the  South  ! 

From  mother  and  wife  and  child, 

From  faithful  and  happy  slave, 
Prayers  for  your  sake  ascend  to  Him 

Whose  arm  is  strong  to  save. 
We  check  the  gathering  tears, 

Though  ye  go  to  the  cannon's  mouth ; 
Dominm  provldebit !    Onward ! 

Gentlemen  of  the  South  ! 

I  think  it  will  be  perceived  by  the  specimens  already  quoted,  and 
others  which  I  shall  proceed  to  quote,  that  Mrs.  Ketch um  ignores 
mere  verbiage  in  expression ;  that  each  word  has  its  corresponding 
idea,  and  that — to  use  a  homely,  but  it  seems  to  me  expressive  phrase 
—  her  writings  contain  no  words  or  phrases  thrown  in  for  stuffing. 
She  is  exceedingly  accurate,  saying  all  she  means,  and  no  more  —  a 
style  impossible  of  acquisition  to  a  writer  less  thoroughly  imbued  with 
the  spirit  of  his  subject.  Those  who  give  us  sentiment  at  second-hand 


ANNIE     CHAMBERS     KETCHUM.  709 

always  betray  themselves,  if  in  no  other  way,  by  the  employment  of 
some  vehicle  of  speech  a  little  the  worse  for  long  use  —  some  pet 
phrase  in  demand  of  poetasters  since  time,  or  at  least  rhyme  began. 
Mrs.  Ketchum  does  not  dally  to  adapt  these  to  her  thoughts,  seeming 
to  feel  that  fresh,  strong  conception  is  best  expressed  in  the  language 
it  originally  inspires,  and  that  it  confers  its  own  picturesqueness  and 
acceptability  on  its  peculiar  spontaneous  forms  of  speech. 

In  "  Avord-painting,"  I  have  thought  she  rivalled  Ruskin  at  times 
.in  his  peculiar  gift.  Who  —  beyond  sympathy  with  the  pathetic 
beauty  of  this  "Requiem"  —  but  can  see  therein  the  chameleon-tinted 
forests,  the  "setting"  to  this  central  object  —  the  new-made  grave? 
Who  but  breathes  the  breath  of  the  autumn  flowers,  and  sees  their 
tantalizing,  brilliant  beauty  —  witnesses  the  white-winged  spirit  sweep 
through  the  "  valley's  "  expanse  —  and  later,  the  warder-stars  come 
out  to  guard  the  battlements  she  has  passed,  and  passed  forever? 

Leaves  of  the  autumn  time, 
Crimson  and  golden,  opalesque  and  brown, 
To  this  new  grave-heap  slowly  nestling  down, 

Come  with  your  low,  low  chime 
And  sing  of  her,  who,  spring  and  summer  past, 
In  her  calm  autumn  went  to  heaven  at  last, 

Where  there  is  no  more  rime. 

Flowers  of  the  autumn  days, 
Bright  lingering  roses,  asters  white  as  snow, 
And  purple  violets  on  the  winds  that  go 

Sighing  their  sad,  sad  lays, 

Tell  with  your  sweet  breath  how  her  spirit  fair 
Through  life's  declining  kept  its  fragrance  rare, 

Fresher  amid  decays. 

Birds  of  the  autumn  eves, 

Warbling  your  last  song  ere  ye  plume  your  wing 
For  milder  climes,  stay  yet  awhile  and  sing 

Where  the  lone  willow  grieves; 
Tell  of  a  nest  secure  from  storm  and  blast, 
Where  her  white  wing  —  the  shadowy  valley  past — 

Rests  under  heavenly  eaves. 

Stars  of  the  autumn  night  — 
Crowned  warders  on  the  rampart  of  the  skies, 
With  your  bright  lances  holy  mysteries 

Upon  the  gravestone  write; 


710  SOUTHLAND     WRITERS. 

Tell  of  the  new  name  given  to  the  free 
In  that  fair  land  beyond  the  silent  sea, 

Where  Christ  is  Lord  and  Light. 

i 

God  of  the  wind  and  rain, 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  summer-time  and  sleet  I 
Stricken  and  woful,  at  Thy  kingly  feet 

We  bow  amid  our  pain ! 
Help  us  to  find  her  where  no  falling  leaf 
Nor  parting  bird  doth  tell  of  death  and  grief, 

Where  Thou  alone  dost  reign. 

I  shall  copy  two  others  of  Mrs.  Ketchum's  poems  into  this  sketch, 
prefacing  them  by  extracts  from  Borne  of  her  letters:  these  will  lead  to 
a  better  appreciation  of  them,  especially  when  I  add  that  her  brave 
husband  fell  a  sacrifice  to  the  dear  South 's  and  his  own  sense  of  honor 
and  justice,  in  consequence  of  wounds  received  at  Shiloh. 

"  Our  conflict  is,  in  the  words  of  your  most  apt  quotation  from  our  holy 
Bible,  between  God  and  Baal.  I  may  lose  my ,  my  pride  and  my  bul 
wark,  but  I  shall  none  the  less  willingly  buckle  on  his  armor  and  bid  God 
speed  him  on.  .  .  .  Sunshine  and  fragrance,  and  sweetest  wild-bird  music 
are  all  around  my  Dunrobin  home.  I  listen,  then  look  out,  and  up  at  the 
golden,  crystal  sky,  and  my  tears  will  not  be  repressed  as  I  think  how  de 
generate,  self-sufficient  man  refuses  the  daily  lessons  taught  by  everything 
in  nature.  Yet  I  weep  not  from  timorous  fear,  if  I  know  myself  at  all.  I 
believe  Southern  women  all  are  ready  to  say  with  Archedamia  : 

" '  We  are  brave  men's  mothers  and  brave  men's  wives ; 

We  are  ready  to  do  and  dare, 
We  are  ready  to  man  your  walls  with  our  lives, 
And  string  your  bows  with  our  hair!' 

"You  have  read  this  matchless  battle-song  from  'Chambers'  Journal.'  It 
has  been  ringing  through  my  brain  the  entire  winter,  and  I  find  myself  often, 
as  I  go  about  my  duties,  stopping  suddenly  to  listen,  as  it  were,  to  the  stir 
ring  lines  — 

"'Shame  to  the  coward  heart  that  springs 

To  the  faint,  soft  arms  of  peace ! 
If  the  Roman  eagle  shook  his  wings 

At  the  very  gates  of  Greece, 
Ask  not  the  mothers  who  gave  you  birth 

To  bid  you  turn  and  flee ! 
When  Sparta  it  trampled  from  the  earth, 

Her  women  can  die  and  be  free  !  '  " 


ANNIE    CHAMBERS    KETCHUM.  711 

The  italics  are  hers.     Again  she  says  (January,  1862) : 

"  I  have  been  out  with  my  little  hoe  all  this  glorious  afternoon,  among  my 
flowers,  and  I  found  hidden  away  from  the  frost,  under  a  dainty  coverlet  of 
leaves,  this  precious  violet,  which  I  gathered  for  you.  The  long,  green  spears 
of  the  Kinnikinnick  are  peering  out  from  their  russet,  mail-clad  buds  ;  the 
turkey-berry,  its  friendly  comrade  of  the  woods,  now  a  denizen  with  it  of 
the  Dunrobin  grounds,  is  swelling  in  every  branch  with  emulative  sap ;  and 
across  the  North  Biding,  as  we  call  the  avenue  leading  to  our  home,  the 
dog-wood  and  Judas-tree  are  making  ready  for  their  fair  spring  favors. 
There  is  a  threat  of  winter  yet,  early  in  the  mornings,  but  I  feel  in  my  veins 
and  my  heart  that  the  blessed  spring-time  is  coming,  and  for  the  last  week  I 
have  literally  lived  out  of  doors  —  now  feeding  the  pigs  or  hunting  hens' 
nests  with  Nora  and  Benny,  or  lying  on  the  porch  in  the  sunshine,  our  fa 
mous  yellow  cat —  General  Braxton  Bragg  — at  my  feet.  The  children  talk 
to  him,  and  he  answers  as  intelligently  as  any  other  soldier,  only  in  not 
as  good  English  as  some  others.  .  .  . 

"  A  letter  from  my  brave  soldier  yesterday,  brings  tidings  of  his  continued 
health  and  safety.  ...  He  says  it  is  likely  his  command  will  be  ordered  to 
Bowling  Green  shortly,  as  most  of  the  Western  forces  are  congregating  there. 
All  I  love  best  are  in  that  onward  march  to  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground, 
that  beautiful  Eden,  won  inch  by  inch  from  the  savage  in  the  bygone  time, 
that  hallowed  land  where  all  my  dead  are  sleeping." 

Again :  "  1  do  not  fear  for  the  safety  of  our  city,  but  the  flower  of  our 
land  are  gathering  to  the  rescue  at  Decatur,  and  my  head  swims  to  think 
how  soon  our  homes  may  be  desolated  of  our  sunshine.  The  history  of  bat 
tles  proves  the  truth  of  Abb6  Fen61on's  words:  'La  cruelle  guerre!  Elle 
moisonne  les  bans,  et  epargne  les  mechants  ! '  and  how  dare  I  hope  I  shall  be 
blessed  above  others  ?  .  .  .  Yet  I  would  not  have  the  South  retreat  one  step 
from  the  position  she  has  taken.  I  believe  her  cause  is  altogether  just,  and 
that  history  will  accord  her  a  degree  of  forbearance  unexampled  in  the 
annals  of  nations." 

The  subjoined  poem,  written  in  1866,  tells  its  own  story: 
APEIL  TWENTY-SIXTH. 

Written  in  Elmwood  Cemetery,  upon  the  occasion  of  the  solemn  Floral  Festival,  com 
memorative  of  the  Confederate  Dead. 

Dreams  of  a  stately  land 

Where  rose  and  lotus  open  to  the  sun, 
Where  green  savane  and  misty  mountain  stand  — 

By  lordly  valor  won. 


712  son-  ii  i.  A  x  D    w  UITERS. 

Dreams  of  the  earnest-l-rnw,  -.1 

And  eagle-eyed,  who  late  with  banner  bright 
Rode  forth   in  knightly  errantry  to  do 

1>,  \,,ir  fur  Cuil  :ind  Right. 


Shoulder  to  shoulder,  see 

'1  lie  crowding  columns  file  through  pass  and  glen  ! 
Jl.ar  tin-  shrill  bugle  I     List  the  turbulent  drum 
the  gallant  men! 


Resolute,  year  by  year, 

They  keep  at  bay  the  cohorts  of  the  world  : 
Hemmed  in,  yet  trusting  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts, 

The  Cross  is  still  unfurled. 

Patient,  heroic,  true, 

And  counting  tens  where  hundreds  stood  at  first, 
Dauntless  for  Truth  they  dare  the  sabre's  edge, 

The  bombshell's  deadly  burst. 

While  we,  with  hearts  made  brave 

By  their  proud  manhood,  work  and  watch  and  pray, 
Till,  conquering  fate,  we  greet  with  smiles  and  tears 

The  conquering  ranks  of  gray  I 

O  God  of  dreams  and  sleep  ! 

Dreamless  they  sleep;   'tis  we,  the  sleepless,  dream  ! 
Defend  us  while  our  vigil  dark  we  keep, 

Which  knows  no  .morning  beam. 

Bloom,  gentle  springtide  flowers, 
Sing,  gentle  winds,  above  each  holy  grave  1 

While  we,  the  women  of  a  desolate  land, 
Weep  for  the  true  and  brave  I 

From  the  "  Sunday  Appeal  "  is  copied 

MEHORIA  IN  STERNA. 

JUSTUS  TRANSLATES  MDCCCLXV. 

Unto  thy  golden  sands 

Bright  tropic  country  of  my  love  !   once  more 
I  come  with  exiled  feet  —  how  travel-sore! 

From  cold  and  distant  lands. 


ANNIE     CHAMBERS     KETCHUM.  713 

Brightly  the  sun  still  shines ; 

Amid  their  leaves  white  blow  the  magnol  flowers ; 
The  mocking-bird  throughout  the  circling  hours 

Sings  in  the  bamboo- vines : 

Fair  as  Damascus  gleam 
Thex  city's  gardens,  'mid  their  opulence 
Of  rose  and  myrtle  flooding  sight  and  sense, 

And  hill  and  glen  and  stream 

Glint  in  meridian  light, 
Or  smile  beneath  the  full  and  silvery  moon, 
As  if  no  black  eclipse  could  blot  the  noon, 

No  tempest  blight  the  night. 

O  gentlest  friend !   we  sit 

Beneath  these  drooping  elms ;   the  wind  blows  sweet 
Among  our  Psestum  roses;   bright  and  fleet 

The  finches  sing  and  flit: 

Yet  wearily  we  turn 

From  their  soft  wooings  to  this  precious  ground, 
Along  whose  silent,  consecrated  mound 

The  fires  of  sunset  burn. 

What  shall  I  say  to  thee 

Of  him,  the  patriot  just  —  how  stammering  tell 
The  virtues  of  that  heart,  now  resting  well 

Beneath  the  myrtle-tree? 

From  blue  Atlantic's  bound 
To  the  deep  Bravo's  mango-bordered  shore, 
His  trumpet,  'mid  the  battle's  shifting  roar, 

Gave  no  uncertain  sound: 

But,  firm,  and  true,  and  clear, 
Cautioned  the  rash,  inspirited  the  weak, 
Rebuked  the  venal,  nor  forgot  to  speak 

Bare,  noble  words  of  cheer 

To  brave  men,  fainting,  white, 
In  hospital  wards ;  to  children  in  their  tears ; 
To  women  strong  in  faith  and  strange  to  fears, 

Toiling  by  day  and  night. 


714  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

A  ml  \\lini  ilisaster  dire 

Fiirlnl  the  n-d  crews,  whose  light  had  dazed  the  world, 
lli*.  \nirr  was  first  to  blunt  the  arrows  hurled 

13y  a  flushed  conqueror's  ire. 

Dark  day  of  overthrow ! 
Vitlinix  imincdic.ab'de !  for  thee, 
If  in  the  future's  Gilead  there  be 

A  balsam  yet  to  grow, 

Its  healing  shoot  will  spring 
From  holy  lives  laid  down  for  freedom's  sake  — 
l-'roin  bold  emprise,  whose  clashing  truth  will  make 

The  echoing  ages  ring: 

i 

Its  blessing  will  distil 

From  haunts  made  classic  by  heroic  deeds  — 
From  Shiloh's  plain,  from  Chiekamauga's  reeds, 

From  Malvern's  bloody  hill. 

How  proud  these  memories  vast! 
Giving  us  each  a  dignity  and  strength 
Not  born  of  earth.    They  make  us  one,  at  length, 

With  the  dim,  fabulous  past. 

Ay!  vanquished  though  we  be, 
O  heart!  beat  rhythmic  with  my  sorrow!  we 
Are  of  the  Heraclidae !  mount  and  sea 

Attest  our  high  degree! 

Another  golden  age 

Dawns  from  Potomac  to  the  Mexique  strand  — 
With  Hector  and  Andromache  we  stand 

On  history's  blazoned  page: 

And  from  the  sulphurous  rim 
Of  black  defeat,  we  join  the  deathless  crowds 
Whose  shapes,  like  mountain-peaks  above  the  clouds, 

Loom  through  the  centuries  dim. 

Let  bloated,  vain  success 
Be  worshipped  by  the  millions  of  to-day ; 
Eighteous  defeat,  uncrowned,  hath  silent  sway 

To-morrow  will  confess. 


ANNIE    CHAMBERS    K  E  T  C  H  U  M.  715 

Strike  deep,  though  silently, 

O  Southern  oaks,  your  roots  in  Southern  ground  j 
And  lift,  O  palm  and  laurel,  victor-crowned, 

Your  branches  to  the  sky ! 

The  river's  heaving  floods, 
The  mountain-tops,  the  steadfast  stars  will  say 
Unto  the  cycling  ages :  IN  THAT  DAY, 

LO  !   THERE  WERE   DEMI-GODS  ! 

So  finish  our  selections  from  Mrs.  Ketchum's  poems,  which,  one  and 
all,  with  all  the  strong  faith  they  shadow  forth  in  the  ultimate  triumph 
of  right  and  truth,  will  exclude  her  from  the  rank  of  successful  poets, 
so  far  as  popularity  is  the  test  of  success.  Beside  her  being  emphati 
cally  the  poet  of  a  "lost  cause,"  as  it  is  often  called,  her  style  is  char 
acterized  by  a  degree  of  refinement,  an  elevation  both  of  conception 
and  expression  intelligible  to  the  cultivated  few,  but  which  the  people, 
so  named,  will  never  appreciate ;  and  then  that  air  of  mournfulness 
that  touches  all  she  writes,  whether  of  poetry  or  prose,  though  here 
and  there  stirring  a  heart  to  sympathy  with  its  requiem-like,  chastened 
beauty,  is  not  the  characteristic  most  in  demand  of  those  who  read  for 
relief  from  the  too  true  tragedies  that  life  sets  gratuitously  before  us  all. 

Mrs.  Ketchurn  was  born  and  her  early  life  passed  in  that  pictu 
resque  portion  of  her  State  among  the  crags  of  the  old  Elkhorn  River. 
But  I  must  let  her  tell  something  of  herself: 

"  We  were  three,  we  fatherless  sisters  —  three  little  ones  in  the  old  Kentucky 
home,  watched  over  by  three  older  grown-up  sisters,  to  whom  we  were  seve 
rally  awarded  by  our  dear  widowed  mother,  when  our  father  was  called  home 
to  heaven.  Day  by  day,  when  dismissed  from  the  study  where  our  elder  sis 
ters  taught  us,  we  shouted  among  the  hills,  we  plashed  in  the  flashing  streams. 
Night  after  night,  in  the  long,  snowy  winters,  we  knotted  ourselves  in  the 
chimney  corner,  and  listened  with  wide-open  eyes  to  our  dear  black  nurse's 
marvellous  tales,  or,  covered  up  in  the  warm  nursery  bed,  whispered  together 
of  Sinbad  the  Sailor,  with  half-closed,  sleepy  eyes,  and  at  last  went  off  from 
the  fairy  world  of  child  romance  into  the  fantastic  realm  of  dreams." 

The  above  prefaced  a  sad  narration  of  domestic  affliction,  the  loss 
of  one  of  the  devoted  trio  of  sisters  above  spoken  of;  and  in  connec 
tion  with  it,  I  copy  one  of  the  "  Lotus  "  editorials,  "  Under  the  Leaves," 
which  I  think  (without  any  authority  whatever)  had  for  its  subject 
the  lamented  one  just  mentioned. 

"  We  have  a  pleasant  shade  now,  children,  under  the  leaves.  There  are 
delicate  buds  peering  out  from  the  leaves  of  the  rose,  and  glistening  emerald 


716  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

..n  the  jasmin.'  sprays,  almost  bursting  to  display  their  golden  cups. 

it  on  tin-  slop.-*,  ami  umlor  the  budding  tree*,  tin-  fresh  young  gra-> 
lies  like  a  velvet  carpet.  The  weeping-willows  that  Iran  over  tin-  high, 
white  wall  of  tho  cemetery  are  fringed  with  tender  leaves;  and  yollow  jon- 
quils,  growing  on  the  graves,  arc  tolling  tlicir  golden  bells  in  every  hree/c 
that  whi-pers  among  tho  cedars.  It  is  spring-time,  and  you  know  all  the 
world  is  gay  in  the  spring;  but  the  Lotus  cannot  dance  with  Laeta  now, 
when  the  March  wind  blows  his  merry,  boisterous  life,  and  the  hyacinths, 
awakened  from  their  sleep,  nod  and  swing  in  the  gamesome  frolic. 

"  There  is  a  gentle  river  far  away,  where  the  rock-moss  clings  to  the  tall, 
gray  dill's,  where  the  wild  rose  climbs  like  a  fearless  child,  and  over  whose 
elear.  murmuring  waters  the  sycamore- trees  stretch  out  their  long,  white 
arms  in  silent  benediction.  Its  waters  flow  into  the  Kentucky,  the  Kentucky 
bears  them  to  the  Ohio,  and  the  Ohio  leads  them  at  last  to  join  the  annied 
waves  of  this  grand  old  river  marching  to  the  sea,  on  whose  banks  our  leafy 
bower  is  built.  The  waters  of  that  far-oil' stream  are  singing  a  death-son- 
now:  they  have  murmured  it  all  the  way  from  the  far  Kentucky  hills  i'a-i 
cities  and  towns  and  plantations,  where  light-hearted  children  were  playing. 
but  none  of  them  understood  its  meaning  —  its  story  was  not  for  them.  It 
tells  to  the  trembling  Lotus,  as  she  leans  to  the  solemn  water,  how  the  tall. 
red  mountain-pinks  will  lift  their  heads  on  those  distant  crags,  watching  in 
vain  for  the  pleasant  eyes  that  sought  them  every  spring  ;  how  the  sycamore 
leaves  will  stop  their  whisperings  to  listen  for  the  light  footfall  that  will 
rustle  the  dead  leaves  at  their  hoary  roots  no  more ;  and  day  and  night  the 
Lotus  will  kiss  the  blessed  waves  that  a  little  while  ago  bathed  fair  and  dainty 
feet  that  were  whiter  than  her  petals,  and  mirrored  a  face  that  is  hid  be 
neath  the  violets  now. 

"  Laeta,  joyful  Laeta,  has  an  elder  sister,  with  soft,  brown  eyes  and  sweet, 
majestic  manners.  Her  name  is  Lucia.  She  is  wise  and  thoughtful. 
Through  deepest  darkness  of  sorrow  she  opens  a  path  of  light,  and  where 
there  are  only  thorny  thickets,  she  can  show  us  safe  and  pleasant  pa.— 
She  has  sung  with  the  night-wind  in  the  ear  of  the  sorrowing  Lotus  the  story 
of  One  who  taught  the  whole  world  patience  in  the  garden  of  Gethsemane  ; 
she  has  written  on  the  morning  clouds  the  wondrous  legend  of  the  King's 
Daughter,  whose  raiment  is  of  wrought  gold,  and  on  whose  forehead  shines 
the  morning-star.  Laeta  is  singing  with  the  mocking-birds;  we  can  hear 
them  in  the  wood.  It  is  her  office  to  rejoice  with  even-  joyful  thing.  She  is 
good  and  innocent,  and  always  lovely  and  unselfish ;  but  Lueia  is  wiser  and 
knows  better  what  to  say  when  the  white  rabbit  strays  away,  and  the  rain 
washes  up  the  newly-planted  flower-seeds,  and  the  black  crape  haiigs  at  the 
silent  door." 

I  cannot  better  conclude  this  imperfect  narration  than  by  adding 
that  the  fortunes  of  our  late  civil  contest  left  this  lady  bereft  of  most 
her  worldly  goods,  if  not  all;  and  that,  with  true  courage,  and  zeal, 


ANNIE    CHAMBERS    KETCHUM.  717 

ami  faith,  she  set  herself  to  the  practical  work  of  earning  her  own 
living.  Her  fine  mind  found  employment  in  the  duties  of  a  teacher 
in  the  large  female  school  or  college  conducted  in  Memphis  by  a 
brother  of  General  J.  E.  B.  Stuart;  and  until  an  almost  ruined  state 
of  health  incapacitated  her  for  the  exertion,  she  remained  in  the  insti 
tution,  illustrating  the  worthtessness  of  the  doctrine  that  literary 
women  are  an  incubus  upon  the  body  social,  separate  from  their  pens 
and  ink;  and,  moreover,  substantiating  the  fact  that  Southern  women 
are  worthy  of  all  that  has  been  ascribed  to  them  in  high  heroism  — 
true  adaptation  of  themselves  to  the  changed  circumstances  their 
mother-land's  misfortunes  have  brought  peculiarly  home  to  them. 


AMABAEE  ME. 

When  the  white  snow  left  the  mountains, 
When  the  spring  unsealed  the  fountains; 
When  her  eye  the  violet  lifted 
Where  the  autumn  leaves  had  drifted, 
'Neath  the  budding  maple-tree, 
Amabare  Me. 

Now  the  summer  flowers  are  dying; 
Now  the  rippling  streams  are  drying;  • 
Yet  I  cry,  though  lone  I  linger, 
Where  the  autumn's  crimson  finger 
Burns  along  the  maple-tree, 
Amabare  Me. 

As  the  wild  bird,  faint  and  dying, 
Follows  summer,  foithless,  flying, 
So  my  heart,  doubts  blank  are  beating, 
Broken-winged,  is'  still  repeating, 
While  it  follows,  follows  thee, 
Amabare  Me. 

Soon  will  winter,  gaunt  and  haggard, 
Shroud  a  new  grave,  sodless,  beggar'd ! 
Still,  though  not  a  flower  be  planted, 
Not  a  requiem  be  chanted, 
Not  an  eye  with  tears  be  laven, 
On  a  gray  stone  will  be  graven, 
'Neath  the  leafless  maple-tree, 
Amabare  Me. 


MRS.  CLARA  COLES. 

IN  1861,  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co.,  Philadelphia,  published  a  beautiful 
volume,  entitled  "  Clara's  Poems."  "  Clara  "  is  Mrs.  Coles,  at  that 
time  and  now  residing  in  the  city  of  Nashville. 

"These  poems  are  in  many  respects  well  worthy  the  mechanical  labor 
expended  upon  their  proper  presentation;  for  though  they  cannot 
claim,  and  never  were  meant  to  claim  a  place  amid  the  standard  po 
etry  of  the  language,  they  are  worth,  well  worth  perusal  and  preserv 
ation.  Classic  in  structure,  thought,  or  imagery,  they  are  far  from 
being ;  elaborateness  of  verbal  finish  has  not  been  bestowed  upon  them  ; 
they  neither  paint  nor  awaken  any  of  those  undeveloped  passions,  or 
even  sentiments,  the  revelation  of  which  entitles  the  poet  to  the  proud 
title  of  "  original ; "  but  they  deal  simply  and  chastely,  yet  often  warm 
ly,  with  those  tender  sorrows  and  feminine  fancies  felt  and  nursed  by 
most  cultured  females,  especially  by  those  who  have  passed  much  of 
life  far  from  the  frivolities  of  good  society,  and  dreamed,  amid  crowds, 
of  heart  experiences  never  realized  save  to  those  whose  solitariness  of 
sentiment  is  by  circumstances  wedded  to  solitariness  of  life.  The 
conclusion  is  forced  on  the  reader  of  these  poems,  that  the  writer  had 
a  vague  consciousness  of  possessing  a  fund  of  poesy,  but  had  never 
developed  it. 

"  The  very  simplicity  attained,  seems  to  arise  from  a  dread  of  using 
powers,  thoughts,  and  imagery  of  whose  real  worth  and  meaning  she 
was  timidly  dubious.  She  is  a  pleasing  versifier,  possessed  of  poetic 
instincts,  but  lacking  poetic  power.  She  might  have  been  a  poet  and 
a  good  one :  her  book  reveals  this  pleasingly  and  clearly,  but  it  does 
no  more.  This  is  one  side  of  the  verdict  of  strict  impartiality,  and 
were  we  to  stop  here  it  were  partiality  itself,  for  we  should  omit  the 
better  features  of  the  poems — music,  morality,  and  a  prevailing  tone 
of  religious  effect,  unobtruded,  yet,  unconsciously  to  the  writer  herself, 
pervading  the  whole  book,  and  fitting  it  admirably  for  the  parlor- 
table,  or  what-not  —  a  book  that  may  ever  safely  and  profitably  be 
placed  within  easy  reach  of  young  lovers  of  poesy,  in  the  certainty  of 

718 


CLAKA    COLES.  719 

yielding  pleasure,  inflicting  no  pain  and  teaching  no  error.  Would 
\ve  could  say  the  same  of  greater  poets ! "  Thus  said  a  critic  in  the 
"Southern  Monthly,"  1861. 

John  T.  Edgar,  D.  D.,  in  an  "  introductory  "  to  "  Clara's  Poems,"  says : 

"  '  Clara  '  is  truly  retiring,  and  as  delicate  in  her  claims  to  attention,  as 
she  is  in  the  sweet  images  which  are  so  meekly  and  touchingly  conspicuous 
in  many  of  the  more  tenderly  pathetic  of  her  pieces.  It  will  be  seen  that 
the  great  charm  of  her  verse  is  found,  not  in  their  classical  allusions  or  ro 
mantic  imagery,  but  in  the  simple  appeals  which  they  so  winningly  make  to 
all  that  is  unartificial,  uncorrupted,  truthful,  and  responsive  in  the  more  pure 
and  gentle  emotions  of  every  unsophisticated  heart.  She  has  had  no  learned 
resources  from  which  to  draw  her  inspirations.  To  such  fountains,  no  for 
mer  familiarity  or  more  recent  acquaintance  could  have  enabled  her  to  re 
sort.  The  school  in  which  many  of  her  most  impressive  lessons  have  been 
taught  has  been  that  of  disappointment  and  sorrow ;  and  to  such  lessons 
we  are  indebted  for  many  of  the  finest  and  most  thrilling  stanzas  of  her  often 
plaintive  and  pensive  muse." 


SABBATH  MORN. 

Bathed  in  the  orient  flush  of  morn, 

How  lovely  earth  appears ! 
New  tints  the  opening  rose  adorn, 

Gemm'd  with  night's  dewy  tears. 
Soft,  whispering  breezes  sigh  around, 

And  snowy  cloudlets  lie 
Like  angel  watchers,  floating  through 

The  calm,  pure,  azure  sky. 

The  mountain-tops  reflect  the  rays 

That  usher  in  the  day -god's  beams; 
The  birds  trill  forth  their  songs  of  praise; 

The  wave  in  gold  and  crimson  gleams: 
Oh,  beautiful !     My  spirit  drinks 

In  copious  draughts  of  love  divine, 
While  gazing  on  this  glorious  scene, 

And  worships  at  a  holier  shrine 

Than  mortal  hands  could  ever  rear, 
Or  mortal  language  e'er  portray ; 

For  angel  voices,  murmuring  near, 
Seem  wafting  my  glad  soul  away. 


720  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Sweet,  tranquil  morn !  so  clear,  so  calm ; 

What  soft  emotions  fill  my  breast! 
Uright  rmblriii  of  that  glorious  dawn — 

A  Sabbath  of  eternal  rest ! 


SONNET  TO  SLEEP. 

Come,  0  thou  white-winged  angel,  gentle  sleep, 

Press  thy  cool  fingers  on  my  tear-stained  lids, 
Each  wearied  sense  in  soft  oblivion  steep, 

Oh,  give  the  rest  my  sorrow  still  forbids ! 
Come,  with  thy  crimson  poppy  juice,  and  bathe 

My  throbbing,  care-worn  brow  ; 
Ope  the  rose-tinted,  pearly  gate  of  dreams, 

And  let  my  weary  spirit  enter  now. 
Come,  fold  thy  pinions  softly  round  my  soul, 

And  waft  it  to  some  bright  and  happier  sphere, 
To  meet  and  mingle  for  a  moment  with 

Its  kindred,  who  are  blest  and  smiling  there, 
Waiting  with  song  and  harp  to  welcome  me 

When  death  shall  close  my  simple  history  here. 


"WHO  IS  CLARA?" 

She 's  a  queer  little  woman,  that  dwells  in  a  cot, 

So  lowly  and  simple,  the  world  knows  her  not ; 

Where  the  birds  sing  all  day,  and  the  sweet  flowers  bloom, 

Filling  the  air  with  song  and  perfume ; 

And  peace  seems  to  brood  on  her  halcyon  wings, 

O'er  the  dear  little  nest  where  unnoticed  she  sings. 

She 's  a  sad  little  woman,  though  appearing  as  gay 
As  the  lark,  soaring  high  at  the  dawning  of  day 
Far  up  the  blue  heavens,  to  gaze  on  the  sun ; 
Yet,  folding  her  wings  ere  his  bright  course  is  run, 
All  drooping  and  weary  she  sinks  to  her  nest, 
To  hide  the  keen  arrow  still  deep  in  her  breast. 

Yes,  she's  lonely  and  sad,  for  death  has  bereft 
Her  home  of  its  jewels  —  not  one  now  is  left 


CLAKA     COLES.  721 

To  wake  its  lone  echoes  with  music  and  mirth ; 
Like  sunbeams  they  've  passed  from  the  beautiful  earth, 
Shrouding  her  spirit  in  darkness  and  gloom, 
That  the  sunlight  of  heaven  alone  can  illume. 

And  she  sits  in  her  bower  and  dreams  of  the  past ; 
When  twilight's  pale  shadows  around  her  are  cast, 
And  zephyrs  kiss  softly  the  whispering  leaves, 
Sweet  visions  of  beauty  and  gladness  she  weaves 
In  low,  thrilling  numbers,  that  flow  from  a  heart, 
Where  the  world  and  its  follies  have  never  a  part. 
14 


ADELIA  C.  GRAVES. 

THE  stone  on  which  it  is  written  that  such  a  one  was  born,  lived 
so  many  years,  and  died,  often  furnishes  the  only  record  of  a 
long  and  useful  life,  of  patient  suffering  and  unrequited  toil ;  yet 
even  this  is  frequently  more  than  the  great  world  cares  to  read. 

The  life  that  has  in  it  no  thrilling  incident,  no  wonderful  event,  no 
startling  tragedy,  or  mirth-exciting  comedy,  but  which  is  spent  in  the 
quiet  performance  of  every-day  duties,  has  little  in  it  to  attract  atten 
tion  from  those  outside  the  circle  of  personal  friends. 

Such  a  life  is  that  of  Mrs.  Adelia  C.  Graves,  the  devoted  wife,  the 
self-sacrificing  mother,  the  accomplished  teacher,  and  the  gifted  poet. 
Had  she  persisted  in  following  the  impulses  of  her  early  years,  and 
devoted  her  life  entirely  to  the  pursuits  of  literature,  something  would 
doubtless  have  been  accomplished  which  would  have  caused  the  world 
to  feel  much  interest  in  her  biography. 

She  was  born  March  17th,  1821,  at  Kingsville,  Ashtabula  County, 
in  the  State  of  Ohio,  and.  spent  her  early  life  upon  the  romantic  shores 
of  Lake  Erie.  Her  father,  Dr.  D.  M.  Spencer,  was  a  physician  of 
ability  and  reputation.  He  was  a  man  of  uncommon  mental  power, 
and  at  one  time  exerted  no  small  influence  in  the  political  circles  of 
his  State.  But  his  friends  having  been  defeated  in  their  endeavors  to 
secure  his  nomination  to  Congress  by  the  wire-working  of  his  anti- 
slavery  opponent,  the  noted  Joshua  R.  Giddings,  he  withdrew  from 
further  participation  in  a  conflict  where  success  could  be  gained  only 
by  the  use  of  such  means  as  neither  he  nor  his  friends  were  willing  to 
employ.  When  Mr.  Giddings  was  elected,  Dr.  Spencer  declared  that 
the  ultimate  result  would  be  the  dissolution  of  the  Union,  and  a  fratri 
cidal  war  between  the  North  and  South.  About  a  quarter  of  a  cen 
tury  has  elapsed  since  that  prediction,  then  denounced  as  the  insane 
ravings  of  disappointed  ambition. 

The  children  of  Dr.  Spencer,  one  by  one,  as  they  were  free  to  do  so, 
came  and  united  their  destinies  with  the  South.  Three  of  them  are 
buried  in  Southern  soil,  and  the  subject  of  this  sketch  is  the  only  one 

left. 

722 


ADELIA    C.    GRAVES.  723 

Miss  Spencer  had  iii  her  early  girlhood  resolved  to  devote  her  life 
to  literature.  The  Muses  had  been  the  companions  of  her  childhood. 
Stanzas  written  before  she  was  nine  years  old  are  models  of  correct 
versification,  and  exhibit  the  beautiful  simplicity  of  expression  and 
happy  choice  of  words  which  characterize  the  productions  of  her  more 
mature  years.  She  wrote  because  she  could  not  restrain  the  flow  of 
bright  and  beautiful  thoughts  that  were  forever  welling  up  from  her 
young  heart,  and  taking  shape  in  simple,  child-like  rhymes. 

She  loved  to  be  alone  —  passing  her  time  on  the  pebbly  beach,  or 
in  the  grand  old  forests  that  had  stood  a  thousand  years  near  where 
she  had  been  born.  There  she  could  commune  with  the  invisible. 
There,  with  no  mortal  ear  to  heed,  and  no  tongue  to  criticize  or  blame, 
she  could  warble  out  the  extemporized  lays  which  would  be  ever 
coming  to  her  tongue.  Her  love  of  nature  was  a  passion,  the  record 
of  which  is  beautifully  given  in  some  of  her  earliest  unpublished 
poems. 

Miss  Spencer  married  a  teacher,  Z.  C.  Graves,  President  at  that 
time  of  Kingsville  Academy,  since  founder  and  President  of  Mary 
Sharpe  College,  Winchester,  Tenn. 

To  Mr.  Graves,  the  highest  of  all  employments,  save  one,  the  Gospel 
ministry,  was  that  of  training  the  minds  of  the  young.  The  goal  of 
his  ambition  was  to  become  the  greatest  of  living  teachers :  not  great 
est  in  the  amount  of  money  he  might  amass  by  teaching,  nor  yet  in 
the  reputation  he  might  gain  as  the  manager  of  a  school;  but  greatest 
in  his  capacity  to  communicate  knowledge,  and  secure  the  very  high 
est  possible  development  of  the  moral  and  intellectual  powers  of  those 
who  should  be  objects  of  his  care.  In  this  he  was  at  once  seconded 
by  his  wife  with  all  the  energy  of  her  soul.  So  long  as  health  and 
strength  permitted,  she  was  with  him  in  the  school-room,  sharing  fully 
with  her  husband,  not  only  in  its  labors,  but  in  all  its  responsibilities. 

A  few  years  after  her  marriage,  Mrs.  Graves  received  a  sad  injury, 
which  has  crippled  her  physical  energies  ever  since.  For  five  years, 
at  first,  she  could  not  walk  across  her  room ;  and  oftentimes  now,  she 
is  unable  to  walk  a  short  distance. 

In  1850,  Mr.  Graves,  as  President,  laid  the  foundation  of  the  Mary 
Sharpe  College,  at  Winchester.  It  was  designed  to  be  an  institution 
in  which  the  daughters  of  the  South  could  secure,  not  merely  the  fash 
ionable  accomplishments  of  an  ordinary  boarding-school  education, 
but  the  same  mental  discipline  and  extensive  knowledge  of  ancient 


724  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

and  modern  languages,  the  higher  mathematics,  and  the  natural  sci 
ences  which  our  eons  could  gain  at  the  very  best  colleges  or  universi 
ties  of  the  land.  The  wonderful  success  of  this  institution  depended, 
for  the  first  few  years,  very  much  upon  the  patient  labor,  the  indefati 
gable  energy,  and  the  judicious  counsels  of  Mrs.  Graves. 

That  characteristic  of  Mrs.  Graves's  poetry  which  most  commends 
it  to  our  taste,  is  its  extreme  naturalness  and  simplicity  of  expression. 
They  are  beautiful  word-paintings,  in  which  every  line  of  light  and 
shade  is  distinct  upon  the  mental  canvas ;  yet  there  is  no  labor  for 
effect,  no  straining  after  rhymes,  no  far-fetched  similes;  but  the  verse 
is  in  simple  Anglo-Saxon  words,  with  a  predominance  of  monosylla 
bles,  singing  its  music  as  it  goes.  The  rhyming  words  are  there  simply 
because  no  other  words  would  so  well  express  the  thought.  Yet  while 
it  is  thus  unstudied  and  simple,  thus  devoid  of  all  artistic  display,  it 
is  full  of 

"  Thoughts  not  thought  before," 

full  of  the  beautiful  and  the  grand. 

Mrs.  Graves's  first-born  —  the  child  of  hope  and  promise  —  fills  a 
soldier's  grave !  The  war  and  its  consequences  nearly  ruined  them 
pecuniarily.  Mrs.  Graves  at  the  present  time  occupies  the  position  of 
Matron  and  Professor  of  Rhetoric  in  the  College.  She  was  formerly 
Professor  of  Latin  and  Belles-lettres. 

The  Baptist  Sunday  School  Union  have  published  eight  little  vol 
umes  for  Sunday-school  children,  mostly  selected  from  the  "  Children's 
Book,"  which  Mrs.  Graves  edited  for  several  years,  and  for  which  she 
wrote  a  great  deal.  These  books,  at  the  request  of  the  "  committee  of 
the  Union,"  she  compiled  from  her  sketches  therein  published.  She 
has  contributed  to  different  periodicals,  mostly  fugitive  poems,  and 
two  prose  tales,  one  a  prize  tale ;  and  "  Ruined  Lives,"  published  in 
the  "Southern  Repository,"  Memphis,  constitute,  with  the  drama  of 
"  Jephthah's  Daughter,"  her  published  works.  She  has  a  quantity  of 
MSS.  on  hand,  written  as  a  pleasure  and  a  solace;  in  fact,  because  she 
could  not  help  writing.  She  is  engaged  now  on  a  work,  entitled 
"Seclusaval;  or,  The  Arts  of  Romanism,"  several  chapters  of  which 
have  been  published  in  the  "  Baptist,"  at  Memphis. 

Mrs.  Graves's  aim  is  to  instruct  and  to  do  good  with  her  pen  ;  con 
sequently,  she  has  tried  rather  to  repress  a  somewhat  exuberant  youth 
ful  fancy.  If  Mrs.  Graves's  health  will  admit,  she  hopes  to  publish 
several  volumes,  and  also  to  collect  her  published  and  unpublished 


A DELI A    C.    GRAVES.  725 

poems.  She  has  a  work  on  "Woman:  Her  Education,  Aims,  Sphere, 
Influence,  and  Destiny,"  (which  has  been  delivered  as  lectures  to  the 
pupils  qf  the  college;)  "A  Guide  and  Assistant  to  Composition;"  and 
a  poem,  entitled  "Alma  Grey"  —  all  of  which  we  hope  to  see  in 
print. 

HUMAN  SOVEREIGNTY;   OR,  EVERY  MAN  A  KING. 

To  the  young  men  of  our  beloved  Southland,  who,  repining  not  at  the  past,  or  despond- 
ingly  brooding  over  what  might  have  been,  have  yet  the  courage  to  accept  their  situ 
ation  as  it  is,  and  the  energetic  exercise  of  whose  wisdom,  goodness,  and  virtue  is  yet 
to  constitute  the  true  wealth  and  freedom  of  a  fallen  people,  the  following  poem  is 
most  respectfully  dedicated,  with  the  assurance  that  gold,  bank-stock,  lands,  cotton- 
bales,  and  negroes  make  no  man  rich  or  great;  but  the  real  wealth  of  any  country  is 
to  be  estimated  by  the  amount  of  the  active  intelligence  and  virtue  of  its  sons  and 
daughters.  RESTJRSAMIJS. 

^ 

Victoria  sitteth  on  a  throne,  with  thronging  nobles  round, 
And  with  a  rich  and  jewelled  crown  her  queenly  brow  is  bound, 
While  thousand  hands,  at  her  behest,  perform  her  slightest  will, 
And  only  wait  a  wish  to  know,  with  pleasure  to  fulfil. 

Her  kingdom  is  the  sea-girt  isles,  and  far-off  India's  shore, 
And  stretches  from  the  northern  snows  to  great  Niagara's  roar ; 
While  ocean-gems  are  crouching  low  her  lion  arms  to  greet, 
And  strong  Gibraltar  humbly  kneels  a  subject  at  her  feet. 

Queen  of  a  mighty  realm,  she  rules  o'er  lands  so  widely  spread, 
And  fearful  weight  of  royalty  resteth  upon  her  head ; 
Millions  of  beings  yield  to  her  their  life-career  to  guide, 
While  Wisdom,  with  its  hoary  hairs,  must  her  decrees  abide. 

But  thou,  young  man,  with  sun-browned  cheek,  a  tiller  of  the  soil, 
Which,  with  the  fruits  it  yieldeth  thee,  rewardeth  all  thy  toil  — 
The  labor-gems  that  gird  thy  brow  have  value  rich  and  great 
As  diadems  of  jewels  rare  that  burden  by  their  weight. 

Thy  God  hath  given  to  thee  a  realm,  and  made  thee,  too,  a  king ; 
And  willing  subjects  unto  thee  their  votive  offerings  bring  ; 
While  thou  must  reign  a  sovereign  lord,  with  undisputed  sway, 
Or  yield  the  master-spirit's  rule  the  subject  to  obey. 

"  My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is,"  *  wrote  one  who  suffered  long 
Within  the  Bastile's  gloomy  walls,  'mid  gratings  high  and  strong  ; 

*  Madame  Guyon,  confined  on  account  of  her  religion. 


726  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

And,  like  a  bird,  she  sat  and  sang  to  liim  who  placed  her  there ; 
Although  a  bird  shut  from  the  fields  of  sunlight  and  of  air. 

Well  was  that  inborn  realm  subdued,  thus  faithfully  to  bring 
The  fruits  of  joy  and  sweet  content,  and  pleasant  memories  fling 
Among  the  hopes  that  budded  thick  within  that  grated  room, 
Where  yet  the  sunlight  of  the  heart  in  gushing  floods  could  come. 

Youth,  with  the  generous  impulses  that  crowd  thy  opening  way, 
Thou  'rt  each  a  king  —  monarch  supreme  —  an  empire  owns  thy  sway : 
'T  is  true  thou  wear'st  no  purple  robe,  no  glittering,  golden  crown, 
Nor  bear'st  a  jewelled  sceptre's  wand  t'  enforce  thy  haughty  frown : 

Thy  kingdom  is  no  wide-spread  land,  girt  by  the  heaving  wave ; 
But  of  thyself  thou  'rt  ruler  all,  from  childhood  to  the  grave ; 
And  he  who  hath  a  high-born  soul,  a  true  and  kindly  heart, 

Addeth  to  "  human  sovereignty  "  its  most  distinguished  part. 

^ 

No  princely  dome  is  thine  to  boast,  no  costly  marble  walls 
Reared  by  the  sweat  of  toiling  men,  who  must  obey  thy  calls ; 
No  pictures  of  proud  artists'  skill,  no  tessellated  floors 
That  echo  to  the  courtly  tread  of  those  within  thy  doors. 

Thy  palace  is  the  wide-spread  earth,  its  dome  the  arching  sky  ; 
And  far  more  bright  than  gorgeous  lamps  the  light  that  meets  thy  eye  - 
The  glorious  sun  at  morning's  hour,  the  flashing  stars  at  eve, 
Among  whose  rays  the  moonbeams  too  their  silver  tissue  weave. 

The  Architect  who  built  for  thee  hath  fashioned  for  thy  view 
Full  many  a  scene  of  beauty  rare,  bright  flowers  of  Eden  hue, 
The  greenwood  shade,  the  waterfall,  the  mountain  tipped  with  mist, 
Whose  sunny  heights  and  dusky  grots  the  amber  clouds  have  kissed. 

What  though  earth  trumpet  not  thy  fame  across  her  lafces  and  seas, 
Nor  silken  banner  waft  it  forth  upon  the  floating  breeze? 
If  in  thy  peaceful  breast  there  lives  the  consciousness  of  right, 
Thou  'rt  happier  than  a  CONQUEROR  returning  from  the  fight. 

What  though  no  herald's  blazonry  trace  back  thy  ancient  name, 
And  find  unmixed  with  vulgar  blood  thy  royal  lineage  came? 
Man's  acts  proclaim  nobility,  and  not  the  kingly  crest ; 
For  he 's  the  noblest  who  performs  life's  trying  duties  best. 

And  should  men  scorn  thy  mean  attire,  and  dare  to  call  thee  "slave" 
Hold  up  thy  head,  king  of  thyself,  and  be  thou  truly  brave ; 
For  God  hath  given  thee  sovereignty  of  soul,  and  mind,  and  heart, 
And  absolute  thy  power  must  be  till  life  itself  depart. 


A DEL I A    C.    GRAVES.  727 

Then  arm  that  soul  with  heaven-born  truth,  with  justice,  and  with  love ; 
And  fill  thy  mind  with  knowledge  too,  foul  error  to  remove ; 
Stir  well  the  ground  of  thy  young  heart,  that  it  produce  no  weeds, 
But  precious  fruits  of  charity,  and  treasures  of  good  deeds. 

Ay,  let  thy  bosom  wear  the  robe  of  high-born  honesty, 

And  truth  gird  e'en  thy  secret  acts  with  its  pure  panoply ; 

Then,  knowledge-crowned,  thy  brow  serene  with  holy  light  shall  glow, 

And  rays  of  living  radiance  o'er  a  darkened  world  shall  throw. 

And  thou  'It  so  rule  this  precious  realm  bestowed,  fair  youth,  on  thee, 
That  when  is  asked  thy  last  account  thou  'It  give  it  joyfully ; 
Nor  fear  abash  thy  pallid  cheek,  nor  tremble  on  thy  tongue, 
To  meet  the  Universal  King  and  mingle  with  his  throng. 

Prince  of  humanity !  self  s  rightful,  heaven-born  lord ! 
Virtue  and  goodness  bring  their  own  exceeding  great  reward : 
Be  free  from  passion's  rule,  from  ignorance  and  pride, 
And  there 's  no  nobler  work  than  man,  the  Godhead's  self  beside. 


MRS.  MARY   E.  POPE. 

MRS.  POPE'S  maiden  name  was  Mary  E.  Foote.  She  is  a  native 
of  Huntsville,  Ala.  She  married,  when  young,  Mr.  Leroy  Pope, 
a  member  of  a  branch  of  the  distinguished  "  Walker"  family,  of  Ala 
bama. 

As  a  young  lady,  Miss  Foote  possessed  a  beautiful,  dreamy  face, 
and  her  form  of  aerial  grace  personified  the  ideal  of  poesy. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pope  made  their  home  in  Memphis,  where  she  has 
resided  since.  Her  life  has  been  chequered  by  misfortune  and  sorrow, 
which  have  only  seemed  to  give  occasion  for  the  development  of  the 
lofty  and  noble  qualities  of  her  nature.  Mrs.  Pope  is  the  mother  of 
Lieutenant  W.  S.  Pope,  killed  at  Tishemingo  Creek,  and  mentioned  in 
the  life  of  General  Bedford  Forrest. 

Mrs.  Pope  has  grappled  with  adversity  with  a  bold,  unquailing 
spirit,  and  ridden  triumphant  over  the  storms  of  life.  She  has  charge 
of  a  flourishing  school  for  young  ladies  in  Memphis,  which  sufficiently 
attests  the  indomitable  energy  dwelling  in  her  slender  and  fragile 
figure. 

The  sweet  murmurings  of  her  muse  may  be  frequently  heard  float 
ing  on  the  breeze,  in  the  Memphis  journals. 


THE  GIFT  OF  SONG. 

If,  when  bright  visions  o'er  thee  throng, 
They  clothe  themselves  in  words  of  song, 
And  strengthen  and  refresh  thy  soul; 
Though  weak  and  faint  the  numbers  roll, 

Yet  fear  not  thou  to  sing. 
If  common  life  to  thee  keep  tune 
Unto  thy  spirit's  chaunting  rune, 
And  all  the  actual  grows  bright 
'Neath  fancy's  soft  ideal  light, 

Thou  hast  the  power  to  sing. 

728 


MARY    E.    POPE.  729 

If  in  each  living,  human  face, 
Thy  unsealed  eye  doth  love  to  trace, 
Through  sin's  dark,  loathsome,  outward  form, 
God's  image,  ever  pure  and  warm, 

Thou  art  a  poet ;  sing. 
When  sorrow  bows  thy  burdened  head, 
And  lurid  clouds  thy  path  o'erspread, 
If  in  thy  grief,  on  radiant  wing, 
The  muse  doth  woo  thee  to  her  spring, 

Fear  not  to  sip  and  sing. 
When  life  blooms  like  a  new-made  bride, 
With  hope  and  love  and  grateful  pride, 
And  earth  to  thy  illumined  eye 
With  Aiden  seems  in  sheen  to  vie; 

If  joy  is  tuneful,  sing. 
When  morning  blushes  o'er  the  earth 
With  rosy  softness,  bloom,  and  mirth, 
And  birdlings  from  each  jewelled  spray 
Woo  thee  to  hail  the  new-born  day; 

If  music  haunt  thee,  sing. 
If,  when  thy  glances  seek  the  sky, 
Where  sunset  hues  its  pavement  dye, 
Thy  fettered  spirit  clank  its  chain, 
Struggling  to  make  its  utterance  plain ; 

Unbind  the  links  and 'sing. 
It  may  be  that  thy  lyre's  faint  tone 
No  magic  master-key  may  own ; 
Thy  falt'ring  steps  may  fail  to  reach 
In  fame's  great  temple-shrine  a  niche; 

But  yet  fear  not  to  sing. 
As  well  the  twitt'ring  wren  might  fear 
With  his  soft  strain  the  day  to  cheer 
Because  the  nightingale's  rich  note 
More  proudly  sweet  at  eve  doth  float, 

And  thus  refuse  to  sing, 
As  thou,  because  on  stronger  wing 
Thy  brothers  scale  fame's  height  and  sing  — 
Their  grand,  immortal  harps  will  wake 
A  thousand  lesser  shells  to  take 

Part  in  creation's  hymn. 
The  heaven-descended,  god-like  power 
To  mortals  is  a  priceless  dower. 
Some  hearts  in  silent  grief  may  ache ; 
But  some,  if  mute,  e'en  joy  would  break, 

And,  sad  or  glad,  must  sing. 


730  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

But  if  to  thee  no  radiant  sheen 
Light  up  the  roughest  human  mien; 
If  life  wear  not  a  glorious  light, 
Beyond  what  beams  on  common  sight, 

Be  still,  nor  dare  to  sing. 
If  human  faith  and  human  love 
In  thee  no  sacred  worship  move; 
If  in  bright  nature's  open  eye 
No  great,  eternal  beauty  lie, 

Be  sure  thou  canst  not  sing. 
If  thy  calm  pulse  and  even  blood 
Course  not  at  times  a  lava  flood, 
With  suffocating  rush  of  thought, 
By  noble  deeds  or  evil  brought, 

Such  cool  blood  cannot  sing. 
Touch  not  with  hand  profane  the  lyre, 
Unbaptized  with  the  sacred  fire. 
Study  may  give  the  tricks  of  art, 
But  cannot  the  bard's  power  impart 

To  other  souls  to  sing. 


THE  RAIN. 

The  rain,  the  longed-for  summer  rain, 

Is  coming  down  at  last; 
Over  the  city,  the  wood,  the  plain, 

A  misty  veil  is  cast. 
The  children  of  men,  with  dust-dimmed  eyes, 

And  a  prayer  in  every  heart, 
Look  fearful  up  to  the  cloud-draped  skies, 

Lest  the  welcome  signs  depart. 

The  rain,  the  pleasant  summer  rain, 

Comes  pattering  from  the  eaves; 
The  grateful  music  rings  again 

From  the  dust-besprinkled  leaves. 
O  children  of  men,  from  sleep  arise, 

To  worship  the  loving  Hand 
That  sends  the  life-stream  from  the  skies 

To  heal  the  fainting  land. 


MARY    E.    POPE.  731 

The  rain,  the  cooling  summer  rain, 

How  it  brightens  the  crisp,  brown  grass ! 
How  the  odors  of  blossom  and  ripened  grain 

Sweep  by  as  the  sweet  drops  pass ! 
The  cattle,  upon  a  thousand  hills 

On  freshened  pastures  fed, 
Are  drinking  content  the  tide  that  fills 

The  dried-up  streamlet's  bed. 

The  rain,  the  grateful  summer  rain, 

It  falleth  alike  on  all  — 
On  the  child  of  want  in  his  aching  pain, 

On  the  dweller  in  splendor's  hall ; 
On  him  whose  heart  and  hands  are  clean, 

On  the  wretch  with  the  mark  of  Cain ; 
And  lordly  man  aiid  reptile  mean 

Bless  God  for  the  summer  rain. 

The  blessed  rain  of  heavenly  grace 

Is  falling  on  human  souls, 
And  the  stain  from  the  mire  of  earth's  wild  chase 

Away  on  the  bright  drops  rolls ; 
The  heart  that  in  sin  lay  scorched  and  dead, 

To  a  higher  life  has  birth, 
Whence  flowers  of  love  and  holiness  shed 

Sweet  perfume  o'er  the  earth. 


MAEAH. 

"  I  went  out  full,  and  the  Lord  hath  brought  me  home  empty.' 

Travel-stained,  foot-sore,  and  weary 

Comes  the  exile  home  again ; 
Lifting  eyes  tear-stained  and  dreary 

O'er  her  life's  wide,  blasted  plain; 
With  the  dust  of  ceaseless  sorrow 

Burning  ever  on  her  brow, 
Seeks  on  Labor's  fields  to  borrow 

Strength  to  meet  the  empty  Now. 

Ne'er  was  queen,  with  crown-gem  studded, 
On  the  world's  most  lofty  throne, 

Richer  than  with  heart-love  flooded 
Went  the  exile  from  her  home. 


SOUTHLAND    WRITER 8. 

Mother  —  oh!  the  wealth,  the  glory 

Of  that  (liiuU'in  of  light; 
Words  can  never  tell  the  story 

Of  its  treasures  of  delight. 

On  the  won  field,  rent  and  gory, 

Whence  the  routed  foe  had  fled, 
Faded  out  the  light  and  glory 

When  the  hero  son  lay  dead. 
Empty,  shorn,  and  inly  bleeding, 

Groping  'neath  a  rayless  sky, 
All  the  joys  of  earth  unheeding, 

Fain  the  mother-heart  would  die. 

But  o'er  sorrow's  waves  come  stealing 

Whispered  tones  of  tender  love, 
To  the  darkened  soul  revealing 

Shapes  of  light  the  grave  above ; 
And  a  form  of  seraph  beauty, 

Hero  brow,  and  maiden  cheek, 
To  hear  her  song,  "  Life  is  duty, 

And  the  brave  the  conflict  seek." 

Travel-stained,  foot-sore,  and  weary, 

Is  there  strength  left  to  obey? 
O'er  a  life  so  blank  and  dreary, 

Can  the  fainting  steps  make  way? 
Saviour,  on  thy  path  of  sorrow, 

Guide  the  feet  so  far  astray, 
Purge  the  tear-dimmed  eyes  to  follow 

Thee,  the  mourner's  hope  and  stay. 


VIRGINIA. 


733 


MRS.  MARGARET  J.  PRESTON. 


ARGARET  JUNKIN  is  the  second  daughter  of  the  Rev. 
George  Junkin,  D.  D.,  a  Presbyterian  divine  of  some  note 
in  the  Southern  portion  of  that  Church.  Dr.  Junkin  was 
President  of  Lafayette  College,  Easton,  Pa,.,  and  of  Wash 
ington  College,  Lexington,  Va.  The  successor  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Junkin 
in  the  presidential  chair  of  the  latter  College  is  Robert  E.  Lee. 
"  Stonewall "  Jackson  was  one  of  its  Professors  in  the  term  of  Dr. 
Junkin,  whose  eldest  daughter  was  the  wife  of  the  famous  Confederate 
leader. 

Miss  Junkin  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  "  Southern  Literary 
Messenger  "  during  the  editorship  of  John  R.  Thompson.  The  follow 
ing  poem  was  published  in  1850 : 

DANTE  IN  EXILE. 

"  The  prior  perceived  one  day  a  man  coming  into  the  monastery  whom  none  of  its 
inmates  knew.  He  asked  him  what  he  wanted ;  but  the  stranger  making  no  reply,  and 
continuing  to  gaze  on  the  building,  as  though  contemplating  its  architecture,  the  ques 
tion  was  put  a  second  time;  upon  which,  looking  round  on  his  interrogator,  he  answered: 
'Peace  ! '"  —  TURNBULL'S  Genius  of  Italy. 

Peace  for  the  exile  banished  from  his  home, 
His  kindred,  and  his  country  ?  —  for  the  man 
Whose  very  birthplace  roots  him  from  her  soil 
In  jealous  rage,  as  though  he  were  a  weed 
Of  noxious  influence,  and  flings  him  forth 
To  wither,  all  uncared  for  — peace  for  him  f 
Yea,  even  for  him  —  if  indignation  just 
Against  oppression  and  foul  wrong  can  yield 
A  nutriment,  though  bitter,  strong  enough 
To  still  the  cravings  that  his  nature  feels ; 
But  not  for  thee,  O  Poet,  with  thy  soul 
Of  organism  tender,  delicate, 

735 


736  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Stern,  yet  with  woman's  gentlest  sweetnesses 

Tempering  its  loftiness  —  its  every  chord 

Thrilling  with  an  unutterable  love 

To  thine  unworthy  Florence  —  with  thy  heart, 

Thy  high,  heroic,  melancholy  heart, 

In  its  refinement  of  ecstatic  pain, 

Quivering  beneath  its  sorrow  evermore ! 

No  peace  for  thee  !    Thy  sadden'd  gaze  could  rest 

Upon  no  other  sky  that  wore  a  hue 

Resplendent  as  thine  own  Etrurian  heavens ; 

No  stream  that  flashed  in  sunshine  could  awake 

The  joyousness  that  thy  young  years  had  known 

By  silvery  Arno ;  and  no  city  seem 

So  queenly  in  its  proud  magnificence 

As  beautiful  Florence,  lying  lovingly 

Within  the  arms  of  her  encircling  hills. 

Yet  she  could  fling  thee  from  her  —  she  could  bear 

To  bind  thy  sensitive  spirit  to  the  rack 

Of  an  ingenious  torture,  till  thy  life 

Should  wear  in  broken-heartedness  away ! 

And  thou  couldst  tame  thy  fiery  nature  down, 

And  love  her  still  with  an  unselfish  love, 

That  nought  could  quench,  even  in  thy  deepest  wrong, 

Throughout  thy  years  of  lingering  martyrdom ! 

She  could  not  take  thine  all :  though  sore  athirst 
For  the  sweet  sympathies  that  once  refreshed 
Thy  Tuscan  home  —  thou  hadst  a  hidden  spring, 
Pure,  cooling,  inexhausted,  whence  thy  mind 
Drew  strength  and  solace  'midst  ijts  harshest  woes ; 
And  even  in  thy  severest  poverty 
Of  hope  and  comfort  —  thou,  with  lavish  hand, 
Didst  pour  from  out  that  precious  fount  of  song 
Delicious  waters  that  should  ever  yield 
Divine  refreshment. 

But  the  living  stream, 

So  clear  and  full  and  flowing,  and  so  fraught 
With  rare  delight  to  others  —  could  not  cure 
Thy  long  home-sickness  —  could  not  satisfy 
Thy  painful  human  yearnings.     And  the  peace 
Which  thou  hadst  sought  through  many  wanderings  — 
Through  years  of  weary  banishment,  in  vain  — 
Thine  aching  heart  found  only  in  the  grave  1 


MARGARET    J.    PRESTON.  737 

In  1857,  she  published  a  volume,  entitled  "  Silverwood  :  A  Book  of 
Memories." 

Colonel  J.  T.  L.  Preston,  the  husband  of  the  subject  of  this  article, 
is  one  of  the  faculty  of  the  Virginia  Military  Institute,  at  Lexington. 

Mrs.  Preston's  most  ambitious  effort  is  the  poem  of  "  Beechenbrook : 
A  Rhyme  of  the  War." 

Mrs.  Preston  has  written  because  she  "  thought  in  numbers,  and  the 
numbers  came,"  not  for  popular  notice,  nor  from  necessity,  as,  alas !  so 
many  of  her  countrywomen  have  been  forced  to  do  since  the  war,  by 
the  reverses  of  fortune.  She  is  so  happy  as  to  be  lifted  above  want  or 
accidents  of  poverty.  She  has  written  for  pastime  and  from  patriot 
ism,  as  the  amusement  in  the  pleasant  idleness  of  a  life  devoted  not  to 
literature,  but  to  the  womanly  cares  and  pleasures  which  a  large 
establishment,  husband,  children,  and  "society"  force  upon  her. 

Mrs.  Preston  was  a  frequent  contributor  from  its  commencement  to 
the  "  Land  we  Love ;  "  General  Hill,  its  editor,  being  a  warm  personal 
friend  of  hers.  She  also  contributes  to  various  other  Southern  journals. 
We  subjoin  some  critiques,  Northern  and  Southern,  of  "  Beechen 
brook  " — the  first  taken  from  the  "Round  Table,"  the  second  from 
the  "  Field  and  Fireside :  " 

"  BEECH EXBROOK  :  A  RHYME  OF  THE  WAR.  —  A  publisher's  printed  esti 
mate  of  the  sale  of  his  publications  is  usually  somewhat  imaginative ;  to  use 
a  threadbare  but  serviceable  quotation,  '  The  wish  is  often  father  to  the 
thought.'  Yet  in  this  case  we  see  no  reason  to  doubt  the  entire  veracity  of 
Messrs.  Kelly  &  Piet  in  announcing  '  fifth  thousand '  on  the  title-page  of 
this  volume.  It  is  one  which,  we  should  judge,  would  be  immensely  popu 
lar  among  the  people  for  whom  it  was  written,  and  to  whose  sectional  pride 
and  prejudices  it  appeals  in  more  ways  than  one.  In  all  respects  it  is  essen 
tially  Southern,  and  in  most  it  is  praiseworthy.  Its  press-work  especially 
shows  a  standard  of  excellence  which  we  were  not  prepared  to  look  for  below 
Philadelphia ;  and  the  poems  themselves,  if  they  do  not  quite  deserve,  still 
do  not  altogether  disgrace  their  handsome  setting.  In  two  points  particu 
larly  they  challenge  Southern  admiration :  in  the  first  place,  they  are  not 
absolutely  trash,  which  is  quite  an  advance  on  the  majority  of  Southern 
verse ;  and  in  the  second  place,  their  merit  is  even  sufficient  to  dimly  fore 
shadow  a  time  when  the  sunny  South  shall  achieve  intellectual  emancipa 
tion  in  a  literature  of  its  own,  and  be  no  longer  dependent  on  New  England 
for  poetry,  as  well  as  piety,  politics,  and  prints.  To  the  author's  own  people, 
therefore,  unjaded  as  yet  by  the  worship  of  many  literary  idols,  her  book 
must  be  peculiarly  grateful :  even  we  of  the  North,  who  are  not  tainted  by 
that  sombre  fanaticism  that  sees  no  good  in  Nazareth,  may  find  in  it  much 
15 


738  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

to  admire  and  applaud.  The  verse  is  graceful  and  flowing,  and  the  language 
and  sentiment  prove  the  author  to  be  a  lady  of  refined  and  cultivated  taste. 
ll>ulce  et  deem1  is  nit  her  an  indecorous  liberty  with  Horace,  and  we  should 
greatly  prefer  that  Miss  (or  Mrs.?)  Preston  had  not  linked  'breast 'with 
'caress,'  nor  turned  '  harassing' and  'support'  into  'harassing'  and  'sup 
port.'  But  after  all,  we  are  not  so  much  concerned  with  Miss  (or  Mrs.  ?) 
Preston's  Latin  and  orthoepy,  which  might  be  better,  as  with  her  poetry, 
which  might  be  decidedly  worse.  The  story  of  ' Beechenbrook ' — a  story 
mournfully  trite  to  thousands  of  aching  hearts  —  is  simply  and  gracefully 
told;  and  some  of  the  shorter  poems  interspersed  — ' Only  a  Private '  and 
•Shi in  in  Battle'  —  are  not  without  pathos.  Of  course,  the  war  is  re 
garded  from  the  Confederate  standpoint,  and  equally,  of  course,  there  is 
the  usual  amount  of  Southern  devotion  and  Southern  invincibility  —  Miss 
(or  Mrs.?)  Preston's  rebels  being  easily  victorious  against  anything  less  than 
quadruple  odds,  which  is  a  rather  perplexing  statement,  considering  that 
Northern  bards  assure  us  of  its  exact  converse.  But  to  offset  these  very 
natural  and  not  unpardonable  flights  of  fancy,  we  have  much  less  than  the 
usual  amount  of 'vandal  hordes'  and  'despot's  heels'  that  generally  tram 
ple  through  and  make  gory  the  war-poetry  of  Dixie,  just  as  the  strains  of 
the  Federal  minstrel  are  enlivened  by  the  dismal  howl  of  the  bondman. 
The  most  flagrant  error  in  this  direction  is  a  rather  invidious  comparison  of 
the  vulture  and  the  eagle  in  what  is  one  of  the  best  poems  in  the  book, 
'  Stonewall  Jackson's  Grave ; '  but  it  is  suggested  only  to  be  deprecated 
and  dismissed.  The  stanza  will  bear  quoting : 

'  The  largess  of  their  praise  is  flung 

With  bounty  rare  and  regal  ; 
Is  it  because  the  vulture  fears 

No  longer  the  dead  eagle  ? 
Nay,  rather  far  accept  it  thus  — 

An  homage  true  and  tender, 
As  soldier  unto  soldier  worth, 

As  brave  to  brave  will  render.' 

"  The  last  stanza  is  even  better : 

'  Rare  fame  !  rare  name  !     If  chanted  praise, 

With  all  the  world  to  listen ; 
If  pride  that  swells  a  nation's  soul, 

If  foemen's  tears  that  glisten  ; 
If  pilgrim's  shrining  love — if  grief, 

Which  nought  may  soothe  or  sever; 
If  THESE  can  consecrate  —  this  spot 

Is  sacred  ground  forever ! ' 

"  The  political  tone,  if  we  may  so  call  it,  of  these  poems,  is  much  higher 
and  healthier  throughout  than  we  could  have  expected,  or  than  we  were 


MARGARET    J.    PRESTON.  739 

warranted  in  hoping  for  by  any  example  of  moderation  that  loyal  muses 
have  set.  Southern  women,  we  are  told,  still  cherish  in  their  hearts  that 
bitterness  of  hatred  and  that  stubbornness  of  rebellion  that  did  so  much  to 
prolong  the  late  conflict,  and  which  their  husbands  and  brothers,  we  believe, 
have  more  wisely  and  nobly  dismissed;  but  if  we  interpret  this  volume 
rightly,  if  it  has  not  been  deftly  doctored  for  the  Northern  market,  we  take 
it  as  a  sign,  that,  even  among  the  women  of  the  South,  at  least  the  more 
cultivated  portion,  the  right  feeling,  the  true  patriotism,  is  gradually  re 
asserting  itself.  The  concluding  poem,  entitled  'Acceptation/  expresses 
best  the  spirit  which  should  animate  the  Southern  people ;  a  spirit  wherein 
a  very  intelligible  regret  for  the  past  is  tempered  by  submission  in  the  pre 
sent,  and  abiding  hope  for  the  future : 

'  We  do  accept  thee,  heavenly  peace  ! 

Albeit  thou  comest  in  a  guise 

Unlocked  for  —  undesired;  our  eyes 
Welcome  through  tears  the  sweet  release 
From  war,  and  woe,  and  want  —  surcease 
For  which  we  bless  thee,  blesse'd  peace  ! ' 

"  These  lines  have  the  true  ring ;  and  an  extension  of  the  feeling  which 
prompted  them  will  do  more  to  hasten  reconstruction  than  the  harangues 
of  a  dozen  Senators,  and  the  Freedmen's  Bureau  to  boot.  The  women  of 
the  South  have  done  much  to  destroy  the  Union ;  they  can  certainly  do  as 
much  to  rebuild  it." 

"  It  is  to  be  sincerely  hoped  that  the  war  which  has  so  severely  scourged 
the  South  will  bring  some  good  to  the  country,  beside  the  lessons  of  political 
economy  it  has  impressed  upon  us  all.  It  is  cheering  to  begin  to  see  already 
some  marked  signs  of  fruition  of  this  hope  in  the  matter  of  the  literary  sta 
mina,  and  taste,  and  ambition  of  our  people.  It  has  always  seemed  to  us 
that  whatever  of  genius  there  is  in  the  South,  there  has  always  been  wanting 
some  great  necessity,  some  great  pressure  of  circumstances,  some  great  awak 
ening  cause  to  arouse  and  develop  it ;  and  it  would  seem  that  the  war,  in 
its  progress  and  final  effect,  is  the  first  gleam  of  the  dawning.  It  certainly 
has  kindled  a  poetic  fire  that  has  never  burned  before ;  and  now,  while  the 
great  avalanche  of  worthless  rhymes  which  it  forced  out  upon  the  seething 
surface  are  being  sunk  into  their  proper  places  in  the  dark  waters  of  oblivion, 
a  pearl  here  and  an  opal  there  are  being  fished  out,  burnished,  and  set 
ablazing  in  tissues  of  beautiful  gold. 

"  At  first,  some  good  things  will  be  lost  in  the  scramble  with  the  bad;  some 
bad  things  will  be  saved  in  the  shadow  of  the  good.  At  last,  all  the  bad  will 
filter  through,  and  most  of  the  good,  and  the  good  only,  will  be  saved. 

"Messrs.  Kelly  &  Piet,  of  Baltimore,  have  executed  a  commendable  piece 
of  workmanship  in  bringing  out,  from  all  this  rubbish,  the  poems  of  Mrs. 


740  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Preston.*    We  like  the  book.    It  contains  some  elegant  touches  that  should 
not  be  lost. 

"To  begin  with  the  beginning,  and  end  with  the  ending,  as  we  propose  to 
do,  the  leading  poem  covers  seventy-five  pages,  and  is  styled  '  A  Rhyme  of 
thr  War.'  An  appropriate  title,  it  is  true;  but  we  wish  it  did  not  have  this 
double  name  at  all  —  we  have  had  too  much  of  the  war.  It  is  written  in  tlic- 
anapestic  measure,  which  is  so  beautifully  employed  in  the  splendid  ballads 
of  Scott  and  Macaulay,  and  is  interspersed  with  several  animated  odes  in 
the  Pindaric  style.  The  hero  is  a  Colonel  Dunbar,  and  the  introductory 
scene  portrays  the  parting  of  husband  from  wife  and  children,  and  the  sor 
row  which  overspreads  his  hitherto  happy  home,  Beechenbrook  Cottage, 
when  war's  rude  alarms  burst  over  Virginia,  in  1861,  on  'a  day  bright  with 
the  earliest  glory  of  May,'  and  when 

'  The  blue  of  the  sky  is  as  tender  a  blue 
As  ever  the  sunshine  came  shimmering  through.' 

The  wife,  after  she  prepared  the  few  little  articles  belonging  to  a  soldier's 
wardrobe,  and  after  he  was  ready  to  leave, 

'On  the  fresh,  shining  knapsack  she  pillows  her  head, 
And  weeps  as  a  mourner  might  weep  for  the  dead. 


And  the  stout-hearted  man  is  as  weak  as  a  girl.' 

And  then  the  good  wife  rouses  herself,  and,  in  the  very  midst  of  her  over 
powering  paroxysm  of  grief,  throws  her  arms  around  her  husband's  neck, 
and  leaning  upon  his  breast, 

'  She  raises  her  eyes  with  a  softened  control, 
And  through  them  her  husband  looks  into  her  soul,' 

while  she  speaks,  with  a  steady  and  clear  voice,  the  sentiment  of  a  Macedo 
nian  mother  to  her  son,  when  she  told  him  to  '  Go :  return  with  your  shield, 
or  on  it;'  but  the  griefful  wife  makes  this  uninterrupted  speech,  twenty-six 
lines  long,  hardly  stopping  to  take  breath.  It  is  the  heaviest  part  of  the 
poem.  If  she  had  said  what  she  did  say  with  more  brevity  and  more  vim, 
it  would  have  been  better.  It  is  a  good  scene,  too  much  drawn  out. 

"Beechenbrook  Cottage  is  situate  within  hearing  of  the  booming  of  the 
guns  in  the  battle  of  Manassas.  Mother,  daughter,  and  little  son  seek  a 
green  hillock,  and  pause  to  listen : 

'Again  and  again  the  reverberant  sound 
Is  fearfully  felt  in  the  tremulous  ground  ; 
Again  and  again  on  their  senses  it  thrills, 
Like  thunderous  echoes  astray  in  the  hills.' 

That  is  certainly  very  fine. 

*  Mrg.  Preston  is  a  sister-in-law  of  Stonewall  Jackson. 


MARGAKET    J.    PRESTON.  741 

"  Again : 

'  On  tiptoe  —  the  summer  wind  lifting  his  hair, 
AVith  nostrils  expanded,  and  scenting  the  air, 
Like  a  mettled  young  war-horse  that  tosses  his  mane, 
And  frettingly  champs  at  the  bit  and  the  rein, 
Stands  eager,  exultant  — ' 

"What?  who? 

' — a  twelve  year  old  boy, 
His  face  all  aflame  with  a  rapturous  joy.' 

It  is  really  to  be  regretted  that  the  author  should  have  attempted  to  fill 
such  a  magnificent  background  for  a  superb  picture  with  '  a  twelve  year  old 
boy.' 

"Many  and  many  an  eye  that  peruses  this  paper  will  recognize  a  scene  por 
trayed  in  Mrs.  Dunbar's  letter  to  her  husband.  It  is  not  hard  to  find  the 
beauty  in  these  lines :  whether  it  is  hard  or  not  to  find  any  truth  —  and  how 
much  of  truth  —  in  them  we  leave  the  reader  to  determine.  Here  is  what 
she  writes  to  him  : 

'  Our  beautiful  home  —  as  I  write  it,  I  weep  — 
Our  beautiful  home  is  a  smouldering  heap  ! 
And  blackened  and  blasted,  and  grim  and  forlorn, 
Its  chimneys  stand  stark  in  the  mists  of  the  morn  ! 

'  I  stood,  in  my  womanly  helplessness,  weak, 
Though  I  felt  a  brave  color  was  kindling  my  cheek, 
And  I  plead  by  the  sacredest  things  of  their  lives  — 
By  the  love  that  they  bore  to  their  children — their  wives  — 
By  the  homes  left  behind  them,  whose  joys  they  had  shared — 
By  the  God  that  should  judge  them  —  that  mine  should  be  spared. 

'  As  well  might  I  plead  with  the  whirlwind  to  stay, 
As  it  crashingly  cuts  through  the  forest  its  way! 
I  know  that  my  eye  flashed  a  passionate  ire, 
As  they  scornfully  flung  me  their  answer  of — fire!' 

"  The  hero  of  the  rhyme  is  once  wounded  ere  he  receives  the  fatal  shot  that 
deprived  his  cause  of  his  gallant  services,  and  his  bereaved  widow  and 
orphans  of  their  husband  and  father.  The  allusions  to  the  fields  which  were 
fought  in  the  Old  Dominion  are  but  incidental,  and  perhaps,  on  this  account, 
are  more  interesting  and  artistic. 

"  The  poem  is  a  very  fair  reflection  of  the  feelings  of  our  people,  both  men 
and  women,  during  the  progress  of  the  war,  telling  how  the  women  urged 
the  men  forward  to  the  front,  and  wrote  them  kind  letters,  burning  with 
patriotic  zeal  —  how  the  men  marched  through  snows  and  ice  without  shoes, 


742  SOUTHLAND   \V  RITER8. 

and  fought  battle  after  battle,  with  never  enough  to  eat  —  how  the  mothers, 
wives,  sisters,  and  sweethearts  toiled  day  in  and  day  out  for  the  soldiers,  the 
sick  and  the  wounded,  their  hearts  writhing  the  while  with  a  terrible  doubt 
ing,  hoping,  fearing. 

"  The  last  two  stanzas  of  this  poem  are  full  of  vigor  and  earnestness  —  a  fire 
that  will  kindle  life  enough,  even  where  the  process  of  freezing  has  been 
quite  completed,  to  make  one  appreciate  the  lines  on  page  42 : 

'  The  crash  of  the  onset  —  the  plunge  and  the  roll 
Reach  down  to  the  depths  of  each  patriot  soul ; 
It  quivers — for  since  it  is  human,  it  must,'  etc. 

"Besides  ' Beechenbrook,'  this  volume  contains  'Virginia,'  a  sonnet; 
'  Jackson,'  a  sonnet ;  '  Dirge  for  Ashby,'  '  Stonewall  Jackson's  Grave,' '  When 
the  War  is  over,'  and  '  Virginia  Capta.' 

"  There  have  been  but  few  poems  produced  by  the  war  so  exquisite  and 
thrilling  as  the  'Dirge  for  Ashby;'  perhaps  it  has  not  its  equal,  if  we 
except  Harry  Flash's  '  Zollicoffer.' 

"  We  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  quote  a  stanza  or  two  from  '  Virginia 
Capta ; '  they  have  so  much  of  sublime  submission  —  the  conquered  to  the 
conqueror  —  in  them : 

'  The  arm  that  wore  the  shield,  strip  bare ; 
The  hand  that  held  the  martial  rein, 
And  hurled  the  spear  on  many  a  plain  — 
Stretch  —  till  they  clasp  the  shackles  there  ! 

'  Bend  though  thou  must  beneath  his  will, 
Let  not  one  abject  moan  have  place; 
But  with  majestic,  silent  grace, 
Maintain  thy  regal  bearing  still. 

'  Weep,  if  thou  wilt,  with  proud,  sad  mien, 
Thy  blasted  hopes —  thy  peace  undone  — 
Yet  brave  live  on,  nor  seek  to  shun 
Thy  fate,  like  Egypt's  conquer'd  Queen. 

'  Though  forced  a  captive's  place  to  fill 
In  the  triumphal  train,  yet  there, 
Superbly,  like  Zenobia,  wear 
Thy  chains  —  Virginia  Victrix  still ! ' " 


MARGARET    J.    PRESTON.  743 

NON  DOLET. 

A   SONNET. 

When  doubt,  defeat,  and  dangers  sore  beset 

The  Roman  Arria,  yielding  to  the  tide 

Of  ills  that  overwhelmed  on  every  side, 
With  unheroic  heart,  that  could  forget 
'Twas  cowardice  to  die,  she  dared  and  met 

The  easier  fate;  and  luring,  sought  to  hide 
(For  her  beloved's  sake  —  true  woman  yet!) 

The  inward  anguish,  with  a  wifely  pride. 
Not  so  our  Southern  Arria !     In  the  face 

Of  deadlier  woes,  she  dared  to  live,  and  wring 

Hope  out  of  havoc;  till  the  brave  control, 
Pathetic  courage,  and  most  tender  grace 

Of  her  " Non  dolet"  nerved  her  husband's  soul, 

Won  him  to  life,  and  dulled  even  failure's  sting! 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL  FOR  1862. 
From  "  Beechenbrook,"  a  Poem  of  the  War. 

'T  is  Christmas,  the  season  of  mirth  and  of  cheer, 

The  happiest  holiday  known  to  the  year ; 

The  one  that  we  oftenest  love  to  recall  — 

Most  ancient,  most  sacred,  and  dearest  of  all ! 

Turn  the  records  of  memory  over  and  see 

What  days  of  your  childhood  were  fullest  of  glee  — 

What  scenes  are  remembered  as  brightest  with  joy, 

For  the  old  and  the  young  —  for  the  maiden  and  boy  — 

When  home,  with  its  festive  and  innocent  mirth, 

Seemed  the  sweetest  and  sunniest  spot  upon  earth, 

And  the  chimes  of  your  heart  most  responsively  rung 

To  the  song  that  the  angels  at  Bethlehem  sung : 

Be  sure  that  these  white-letter  days  will  be  drawn  — 

Now  is  it  not  so  ?  —  from  your  Christmases  gone. 

How  saddening  the  change  is !     The  season 's  the  same, 

And  yet  it  is  Christmas  in  nothing  but  name : 

No  merry  expression  we  utter  to-day  — 

How  can  we,  with  hearts  that  refuse  to  be  gay  ? 


744  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

We  look  back  a  twelvemonth  on  many  a  brow 

That  graced  the  home  hearthstone  —  and  where  are  they  now? 

We  think  of  the  darling  ones  clustering  there  ; 

But  we  see  through  our  tears  an  untenanted  chair. 

We  wait  for  a  footstep  —  we  wait  but  in  vain; 

It  will  never  return  from  the  battle  again  ; 

The  dear  face  is  hidden  cold  under  the  clay ; 

His  Christmas  is  kept  with  the  angels  to-day! 

Thank  God  !  there  is  joy  in  the  sorrow  for  all ; 

He  fell  —  but  it  surely  was  blessed  to  fall ; 

For  never  shall  murmur  be  heard  from  the  mouth 

Of  mother  or  wife  through  our  beautiful  South, 

Or  sister  or  maiden  yield  grudging  her  part, 

Though  the  price  that  she  pays  must  be  coined  from  her  heart ! 

We  drop  the  close  curtains,  we  stir  up  the  fire, 

And  pile  up  the  blazing  hearth  higher  and  higher; 

We  wheel  up  our  chair,  and  with  friends  and  good  cheer 

We  try  to  shut  from  us  all  visions  of  fear. 

But  the  spectre  will  come  —  through  the  warmth  and  the  light, 

The  camp  gleams  before  us  all  shrouded  in  white. 

We  tread  the  soft  carpet,  and  lo !  there 's  the  sound 
Of  the  half-frozen  sentinel  pacing  his  round. 
Come  hither,  my  pretty  musician,  we  say, 
Come  chase  us  this  gloomy  oppression  away. 
Her  hand  o'er  the  instrument  gently  she  flings, 
And  this  is  the  Song  of  the  Snow  that  she  sings : 

"  Halt !  the  march  is  over  ; 

Day  is  almost  done ; 
Loose  the  cumbrous  knapsack, 

Drop  the  heavy  gun. 
Chilled,  and  worn,  and  weary, 

Wander  to  and  fro, 
Seeking  wood  to  kindle 

Fire  amidst  the  snow. 

"Round  the  camp-blaze  gather; 

Heed  not  sleet  nor  cold; 
Ye  are  Spartan  soldiers, 

Strong,  and  brave,  and  bold. 
Never  Xerxian  army 

Yet  subdued  a  foe 
Who  but  asked  a  blanket 

On  a  bed  of  snow. 


MARGARET    J.    PRESTON.  745 

"  Shivering  'midst  the  darkness 

Christian  men  are  found, 
There  devoutly  kneeling 

On  the  frozen  ground; 
Pleading  for  their  country 

In  its  hour  of  woe  — 
For  its  soldiers  marching 

Shoeless  through  the  snow. 

"  Lost  in  heavy  slumbers, 

Free  from  toil  and  strife, 
Dreaming  of  their  dear  ones  — • 

Home,  and  child,  and  wife ; 
Tentless  they  are  lying, 

While  the  fires  burn  low ; 
Lying  in  their  blankets 

'Midst  December's  snow !  " 


UNDERTOW. 


It  is  a  gift  for  which  to  render  praise, 

Ceaseless  and  fervent,  that  our  troubled  hearts 

Can  hide  the  harrowing  grief  that  chafes  and  smarts, 

And  shut  themselves  from  all  intrusive  gaze. 
Oft  when  the  murmur  of  the  world  grows  low, 

And  the  felt  silence  broods  serene  and  still, 
The  inward  ear  is  listening  to  the  flow 

Of  eddying  memories,  that  flood  and  fill 
The  soul  with  tumult.    Then  how  blest  to  wear, 

In  eyes  that  yield  no  sympathizing  look, 
A  face  of  tidal  quiet,  that  shall  bear 

No  hint  of  undercurrents !     Who  could  brook 
That  even  our  nearest,  dearest,  best  should  know 
The  secret  springs  of  many  an  hour  of  woe? 


STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  GEAVE. 

A  simple,  sodded  mound  of  earth, 
With  not  a  line  above  it  — 

With  only  daily  votive  flowers 
To  prove  that  any  love  it ; 


746  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

The  token-flag  that,  silently, 

Each  bree/e's  vi«it  numbers, 
Alone  keeps  miirtial  ward  above 

The  hero's  dreamless  slumbers. 

No  name?  no  record?    Ask  the  world  — 

The  world  has  heard  his  story  — 
If  all  its  annals  can  unfold 

A  prouder  tale  of  glory? 
If  ever  merely  human  life 

Hath  taught  diviner  moral  — 
If  ever  round  a  worthier  brow 

Was  twined  a  purer  laurel? 

Humanity's  responsive  heart 

Concedes  his  wondrous  powers, 
And  pulses  with  a  tenderness 

Almost  akin  to  ours : 
Nay,  not  to  ours  —  for  us  he  poured 

His  life  —  a  rich  oblation, 
And  on  adoring  souls  we  bear 

His  blood  of  consecration. 

A  twelvemonth  only  since  his  sword 

Went  flashing  through  the  battle  — 
A  twelvemonth  only  since  his  ear 

Heard  war's  last  deadly  rattle  ; 
And  yet  have  countless  pilgrim  feet 

The  pilgrim's  guerdon  paid  him, 
And  weeping  women  come  to  see 

The  place  where  they  have  laid  him. 

Contending  armies*  bring  in  turn 

Their  meed  of  praise  or  honor, 
And  Pallas  here  has  paused  to  bind 

The  cypress-wreath  upon  her. 
It  seems  a  holy  sepulchre 

Whose  sanctities  can  waken 
Alike  the  love  of  friend  or  foe  — 

The  Christian  or  the  pagan! 

They  come  to  own  his  high  emprise, 
Who  fled  in  frantic  masses, 

*  In  the  month  of  June,  1864,  this  singular  spectacle  was  presented  at  Lexington,  of 
two  hostile  armies  in  turn  reverently  visiting  the  grave  of  Stonewall  Jackson. 


MARGARET    J.    PRESTON.  747 

Before  the  glittering  bayonet 

That  triumphed  at  Manassas  : 
He  witnessed  Kernstown's  fearful  odds, 

As  on  their  ranks  he  thundered, 
Defiant  as  the  storied  Greek 

Amid  his  brave  three  hundred. 

They  will  recall  the  tiger-spring, 

The  wise  retreat  —  the  rally  — 
The  tireless  march  —  the  fierce  pursuit 

Through  many  a  mount  and  valley. 
Cross  Keys  unlocks  new  paths  to  fame, 

And  Port  Republic's  story 
Wrests  from  his  ever-vanquished  foes 

Strange  tributes. to  his  glory! 

Cold  Harbor  rises  to  their  view; 

The  Cedar  gloom  is  o'er  them; 
And  Antietam's  rough,  wooded  heights 

Stretch  mockingly  before  them. 
The  lurid  flames  of  Fredericksburg 

Right  grimly  they  .remember, 
That  lit  the  frozen  night's  retreat 

That  wintry,  wild  December. 

The  largess  of  their  praise  is  flung 

With  bounty  rare  and  regal: 
Is  it  because  the  vulture  fears 

No  longer  the  dead  eagle  ? 
Nay,  rather  far  accept  it  thus  — 

An  homage  true  and  tender, 
As  soldier  unto  soldier's  worth, 

As  brave  to  brave  will  render. 

But  who  shall  weigh  the  wordless  grief 

That  leaves  in  tears  its  traces, 
As  round  their  leader  crowd  again 

Those  bronzed  and  veteran  faces? 
The  "old  brigade"  he  loved  so  well  — 

The  mountain  men  who  bound  him 
With  bays  of  their  own  winning,  ere 

A  tardier  fame  had  crowned  him: 

The  legions  who  had  seen  his  glance 
Across  the  carnage  flashing, 


748  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

And  thrilled  to  catch  his  ringing  "Charge!" 

Above  the  volleys  crashing; 
Who  oft  had  watched  the  lifted  hand, 

The  inward  trust  betraying, 
And  felt  their  courage  grow  sublime 

While  they  beheld  him  praying : 

Cool  knights,  and  true  as  ever  drew 

Their  swords  with  knightly  Roland, 
Or  died  at  Sobieski's  side, 

For  love  of  martyred  Poland ; 
Or  knelt  with  Cromwell's  "Ironsides," 

Or  sung  with  brave  Gustavus, 
Or  on  the  field  of  Austerlitz 

Breathed  out  their  dying  "Aves." 

Bare  fame !  rare  name !  If  chanted  praise, 

With  all  the  world  to  listen  — 
If  pride  that  swells  a  nation's  soul  — 

If  foeman's  tears  that  glisten  — 
If  pilgrim's  shining  love  —  if  grief, 

Which  nought  can  soothe  or  sever  — 
If  these  can  consecrate,  this  spot 

Is  sacred  ground  forever. 


ACCEPTATION. 

We  do  accept  thee,  heavenly  Peace ! 
Albeit  thou  comest  in  a  guise 
Unlocked  for  —  undesired ;  our  eyes 
Welcome  through  tears  the  kind  release 
From  war,  and  woe,  and  want  —  surcease 
For  which  we  bless  thee,  holy  Peace ! 

We  lift  our  foreheads  from  the  dust; 
And  as  we  meet  thy  brow's  clear  calm, 
There  falls  a  freshening  sense  of  balm 
Upon  our  spirits.     Fear  —  distrust  — 
The  hopeless  present  on  us  thrust  — 
We  '11  front  them  as  we  can,  and  must. 


MARGARET    J.    PRESTON. 

War  has  not  wholly  wrecked  us ;  still 

Strong  hands,  grand  hearts,  stern  souls  are  ours 
Proud  consciousness  of  quenchless  powers  — 

A  past  whose  memory  makes  us  thrill  — 

Futures  uncharactered,  to  fill 

With  heroisms,  if  we  will ! 

Then  courage,  brothers !     Though  our  breast 
Ache  with  that  rankling  thorn,  despair, 
That  failure  plants  so  sharply  there  — 
No  pang,  no  pain  shall  be  confessed: 
We'll  work  and  watch  the  brightening  west, 
And  leave  to  God  and  heaven  the  rest ! 


MRS.  S.  A.  WEISS. 

SUSAN  ARCHER  TALLEY  is  descended,  on  the  paternal  side, 
from  a  Huguenot  refugee,  who  settled  in  Hanover  County,  Vir 
ginia.     In  an  old  homestead  on  an  estate  in  this  county  the  subject 
of  this  article  was  born,  and  passed  the  years  of  childhood. 

We  are  indebted  to  "  Mary  Forrest's "  volume,  "  Women  of  the 
South,"  for  the  following : 

"Among  the  traits  earliest  developed  in  Miss  Talley  were  extreme  fear 
lessness  and  love  of  liberty 

"  It  is  said  that  she  was  never  known  to  betray  a  sign  of  fear ;  and  at  the 
age  of  five  years,  in  her  visits  to  the  neighbors,  she  would  unhesitatingly 
face  and  subdue  by  her  caresses  the  fiercest  dogs,  which  even  grown  persons 
dared  not  approach.  A  singular  power  of  will  and  magnetism,  like  that 
ascribed  to  the  author  of  '  Wuthering  Heights,'  seems  to  have  possessed 
her.  She  rode  with  a  graceful,  fearless  abandon,  and  loved  nothing  better 
than  to  float  away  by  herself  in  a  frail  boat.  She  was  the  frequent  com 
panion  of  her  father  and  grandfather  in  their  walks,  rides,  and  hunting  and 
fishing  excursions;  yet  with  all  these  influences,  she  was  ever  a  gentle  child, 
and  remarkable  for  extreme  sensibility  and  refinement.  She  delighted  in 
all  sights  and  sounds  of  beauty,  and  would  sit  for  hours  watching  the  sky  in 
storm  and  sunshine,  or  listening  to  the  wind  among  the  trees,  the  plashing 
of  a  waterfall,  or  the  cry  of  a  whip-poor-will.  This  life  familiarized  her 
with  all  the  voices  of  nature.  A  sound  once  heard  she  never  forgot,  but 
could,  years  after,  imitate  with  surprising  exactness. 

"  When  she  was  eight  years  of  age,  her  father  removed  to  Richmond,  and 

she  then  entered  school When  in  her  eleventh  year,  she  was 

released  from  the  thraldom  of  the  school-room  by  an  unexpected  dispensa 
tion.  It  had  been  remarked  that  for  some  days  she  had  appeared  singularly 
absent  and  inattentive  when  spoken  to ;  being  at  length  reproved,  she  burst 
into  tears,  exclaiming,  'I  can't  hear  you.'  It  was  then  discovered  that  her 
hearing  was  greatly,  impaired.  She  was  placed  under  the  care  of  the  most 
eminent  physicians  of  the  country ;  but  their  varied  efforts  resulted,  as  is  too 
often  the  case,  only  in  an  aggravation  of  the  evil.  She  lost  the  power  to 
distinguish  conversation,  though  carried  on  in  a  loud  key ;  a  power  which 
she  has  not  wholly  recovered 

"  Her  parents  were  at  first  greatly  at  loss  as  to  the  manner  of  conducting 

750 


S.    A.    WEISS. 

her  education.  Fortunately,  she  was  advanced  far  beyond  most  children  of 
her  age;  and  now,  released  from  the  discipline  of  school,  her  natural  love  of 
study  deepened  into  a  passion.  It  was  soon  found  sufficient  to  throw  suit 
able  books  in  her  way,  and  thus,  unassisted,  she  completed  a  thorough  scho 
lastic  course.  She  also  acquired  an  extensive  acquaintance  with  the  lite 
rature  of  the  day,  and  her  correct  taste  and  critical  discrimination  elicited 
the  warmest  encomiums  from  that  prince  of  critics,  Edgar  A.  Poe. 

"  It  was  not  until  Miss  Talley  had  entered  her  thirteenth  year  that  her 
poetic  faculty  became  apparent  to  her  family ;  she  having,  through  modesty, 
carefully  concealed  all  proofs  of  its  development.  Some  specimens  of  her 
verse  then  falling  under  the  eye  of  her  father,  he  at  once  recognized  in  them 
the  flow  of  true  genius,  and  very  wisely,  with  a  few  encouraging  words,  left 
her  to  the  guidance  of  her  own  inspiration.  In  her  sixteenth  year,  some  of 
her  poems  appeared  in  the  '  Southern  Literary  Messenger.'  " 

In  September,  1859,  a  collection  of  her  poems  was  issued  by  Eudd 
&  Carleton,  of  New  YorK.  This  volume  secured  for  her  a  distinction 
of  which  she  may  well  be  proud.  For  rhythmic  melody,  for  sustained 
imagination,  for  depth  of  feeling,  and  purity  and  elevation  of  senti 
ment,  these  poems  are  equalled  by  few,  and  surpassed  by  none  of  the 
productions  of  our  poets.  They  are  rich  also  in  those  qualities  of 
mind  and  heart,  which,  apart  from  any  literary  prestige,  win  for  Miss 
Talley  the  esteem  and  affection  of  all  who  are  admitted  within  the 
choice  circle  of  her  friendship. 

The  "war  experience"  of  this  lady  reads  like  a  romance.  It  was 
reserved  for  Susan  Archer  Talley  to  suffer  many  hardships  and  priva 
tions  during  the  war.  Circumstances  placed  her  during  a  great  por 
tion  of  that  period  within  the  power  of  the  enemy  —  at  intervals  as  a 
guarded  prisoner  —  at  intervals  under  surveillance.  As  the  record  of 
these  events  is  closely  connected  with  many  interesting  phases  of  the 
struggle,  and,  indeed,  in  many  respects  is  historical,  this  sketch  of  the 
lady  under  consideration  would  be  incomplete  without  some  testimony 
to  her  adherence,  in  despite  of  evil  conjunctions,  to  the  principles 
which,  in  common  with  every  true  Southern  woman,  she  steadfastly 
maintained. 

At  the  time  of  the  secession  of  South  Carolina  from  the  Union,  she 
was  in  New  York,  on  her  way  to  Europe,  with  the  ultimate  purpose 
of  realizing  a  cherished  wish  of  her  heart,  viz.,  a  year's  residence  in 
Italy.  Prior  to  the  rising  of  the  issue  between  the  North  and  the 
South,  a  devoted  friend  of  the  Union,  the  Northern  threat  to  "  whip 
the  South  back  into  the  Union  "  with  armed  men  aroused  her  Southern 


752  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

>j>irit;  and  abandoning  her  purpose  of  visiting  Europe,  she  deter 
mined  to  return  to  her  home  in  the  South.  About  this  time  she 
refused  to  sign  a  petition  of  li';i<Iini:  Southern  women,  sent  her  by  Mr. 
Crittenden,  of  Kentucky,  praying  the  Legislature  of  that  State  not  to 
bring  about  the  secession  of  Kentucky.  In  the  same  spirit,  although 
often  since  applied  to,  she  has  scrupulously  refrained  from  any  matter 
touching  upon  politics,  believing  this  pursuit  to  be  out  of  woman's 
legitimate  sphere. 

At  the  threshold  of  her  resolution  to  seek  her  Southern  home,  diffi 
culties  beset  Mrs.  Weiss.  Martial  law  had  been  proclaimed.  Her 
application  for  a  passport  having  been  refused,  she  determined  to  set 
out  alone,  trusting  to  fortune  to  make  her  way  to  the  Confederate 
lines.  At  Barnum's  Hotel,  in  Baltimore,  she  was  called  upon  by  a 
gentleman,  a  stranger  to  her,  who  professed  to  be  well  acquainted 
with  her,  but  who  declared  that  he  must  remain  unknown.  This  gen 
tleman  gave  her  several  MS.  papers,  impressing  upon  her  the  import 
ance  of  their  being  delivered  to  General  R.  E.  Lee  at  the  earliest  pos 
sible  moment.  The  risk  was  great ;  but  she  gladly  consented  to  give 
her  aid,  in  this  way,  to  the  furtherance  of  the  Southern  cause.  Her 
manner  of  secreting  these  important  papers  was  ingenious.  When 
left  alone,  she  carefully  tore  them  so  as  not  to  injure  the  writing, 
folded  them  in  slips,  and  enveloping  each  in  a  slip  of  black  silk, 
plaited  them  in  her  hair,  which  was  fortunately  long  and  thick.  In 
this  manner  she  conveyed  the  precious  documents  in  safety,  until  it 
was  in  her  power  to  confide  them  to  a  more  speedy  conveyance.  And 
this  was  the  first  service  that  she  was  enabled  to  render  to  her  beloved 
South. 

Acting  under  advice,  Mrs.  Weiss  determined  to  reach  Virginia  by 
the  Harper's  Ferry  route.  But  on  reaching  Frederick,  she  learned 
that  the  railroad  thither  had  been  destroyed,  and  the  bridge,  across 
the  river  burned  by  order  of  General  Johnston,  commanding  the  Con 
federate  troops  at  Harper's  Ferry,  in  order  to  prevent  the  crossing 
of  the  Pennsylvania  troops  into  Virginia.  In  spite  of  this  dishearten 
ing  circumstance,  she  still  resolved  to  go  on,  on  foot,  if  necessary.  An 

acquaintance  placed  her  in  charge  of  a  Charleston  gentleman,  Dr. , 

and  so  with  him,  and  in  company  with  another  gentleman,  who  intro 
duced  himself  as  an  officer  of  General  Johnston's  command  returning 
from  a  secret  mission  to  the  North,  she  set  out  on  her  adventurous  and 
somewhat  dangerous  journey.  Nearly  ten  miles  were  traversed  on 


s.  A.  WEISS.  753 

foot  by  the  party.  Occasional  "  lifts  "  in  market- wagons  varied  the 
monotony  and  fatigue  of  the  journey.  At  intervals  of  an  hour  or  so, 
a  summons  to  halt  would  come  from  some  thicket  or  other  hiding- 
place,  where  the  pickets  challenged  them  in  a  low  voice ;  and  occa 
sionally  an  anxious  face  would  appear  from  amid  the  foliage,  in 
quiring  the  news  "from  above"  of  the  military  movements,  warning 
the  party  of  the  presence  of  Federal  scouts  and  patrols  ahead,  and 
advising  how  to  avoid  them.  After  a  cautious  progress,  detours  very 
frequently  being  necessary  to  avoid  detection,  the  party  reached  Sandy 
Hook  about  dusk.  Here  it  was  discovered  that  the  Confederate  troops 
had  destroyed  all  the  boats,  and  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  cross 
the  river.  For  ten  dollars  in  gold,  however,  a  man  for  an  emergency 
was  found,  who  consented  to  patch  up  one,  less  injured  than  the  rest, 
hastily ;  and  in  this  frail  bark  the  travellers  ventured  upon  the  peril 
ous  passage.  Compelled  to  move  slowly  and  preserve  caution,  lest,  by 
the  slightest  overbalancing,  the  boat  should  capsize,  two  hours  were 
consumed  in  crossing,  the  moon  shining  softly  meanwhile.  As  they 
stood  upon  the  Virginia  shore,  finally,  a  woman,  breathless  and  fright 
ened,  suddenly  ran  through  the  bushes  toward  them,  and  told  them 
that  they  had  landed  too  low  down  —  that  there  were  Federals  near 
them,  and  that  the  Confederate  pickets  had  retreated.  The  officer 

determined  to  go  forward;    Dr.  and  Mrs.  Weiss  —  the   latter 

sorely  against  her  will  —  returned  to  the  other  side  in  the  boat,  and 
eventually  were  compelled  to  make  their  way  back  to  Frederick. 

Mrs.  Weiss's  next  attempt  to  reach  the  South  was  by  the  Bay  Line 
of  steamers.  She  applied  in  person  to  Captain  N.  Falls,  the  President 
of  the  line,  who  treated  her  with  great  kindness,  gave  her  a  free  pas 
sage  to  Fortress  Monroe ;  and  on  a  refusal  of  the  military  authorities 
to  allow  her  to  land  at  that  point,  brought  her  back  to  Baltimore. 
On  the  following  day,  a  Federal  officer,  to  whom  Captain  Falls  had 
stated  the  circumstances  of  her  case,  called  on  Mrs.  Weiss,  and  offered 
to  take  her  through,  as  he  possessed  influence  with  General  Butler, 
then  commanding  at  Fortress  Monroe.  After  some  difficulty,  she  was 
permitted  to  land ;  and  after  a  few  days'  detention  at  the  Fortress, 
during  which  she  received  much  kindness  and  respectful  attention 
from  the  United  States  officers,  she  was  sent  by  flag  of  truce  to  Coney 
Island,  whence,  tired  and  penniless,  she  departed  for  Kichmond,  to 
find,  on  her  arrival  there,  that  her  once  beautiful  home  near  that  city 
16 


754  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

h:n I  been  chosen  as  the  site  of  a  Confederate  fort,  and  that  her  family 
was  scattered  far  ami  \viilr. 

Under  these  untoward  circumstances,  Mrs.  Weiss  obtained  shelter 
and  a  temporary  home  with  a  relative  living  in  Hanover  County;  but 
the  family  soon  being  compelled  to  fly  thence  as  refugees,  she  found  a 

boarding-place  in  the  family  of  Captain ,  an  Englishman,  residing 

on  the  Peninsula.  Here  she  found  herself  shut  in  between  the  two 
opposing  camps  of  Yorktown  and  Newport  News.  Veterans  of  the 
Southern  Peninsular  Army  will  well  recall  the  interest  which  at  that 

time  centred  about  " 's  house"  in  the  minds  of  the  soldiers  of 

either  army;  and  many  of  them,  too,  will  remember  the  efforts  for 
their  sa/ety  and  comfort  which  were  constantly  being  made  by  the 
subject  of  this  sketch  during  her  residence  "  on  the  line."  As  a  mem 
ber  of  Captain 's  household,  Mrs.  Weiss's  situation  was  full  of 

excitement  and  of  dramatic  incidents.  Scouting  parties  from  either 
side  daily  visited  the  house.  Skirmishes  would  take  place  opposite 
the  back  window,  and  naval  engagements  would  occur  on  the  river  in 
front.  Spies  and  deserters  passed  and  repassed,  and  parties  from 
either  side  came  constantly  to  search  the  house  for  concealed  "rebels" 

or  Unionists.  Captain was  neutral ;  his  wife  was  a  New  York 

lady;  their  children  and  Mrs.  Weiss  were  Virginians:  thus  was  it  that 
all  parties  found  representatives  in  this  household.  Yet,  strange  to 
say,  Mrs.  Weiss  was  the  only  one  who  was  thoroughly  trusted  by 
either  Confederates  or  Federals.  The  latter,  although  knowing  her  as 
an  open  and  uncompromising  enemy*  invariably  treated  her  with 
more  faith  and  respect  than  they  exhibited  toward  the  other  mem 
bers  of  the  household.  They  granted  her  more  than  one  favor  for  her 
own  people;  and  more  than  once,  also,  did  it  occur  that  her  pleadings 
sufficed  to  save  the  house  from  burning  by  both  General  Magruder's 
and  General  Mansfield's  order. 

Upon  one  occasion,  when  a  party  of  Federal  soldiers  had  come 

upon  Captain 's  place,  and,  in  ambuscade,  had  mortally  wounded 

a  Georgia  officer,  the  Confederates,  suspecting  Captain'—  — 's  faith, 
were  about  to  take  him  prisoner  and  burn  the  house.  Knowing  his 
innocence,  and  moved  by  the  distress  of  his  family,  Mrs.  Weiss  con 
sented,  at  their  solicitation,  to  beg  a  respite  until  she  could  obtain 
General  Mansfield's  promise  that  the  German  soldiers  should  not 

again  molest  the  Confederates  on  Captain 's  premises.  For  three 

miles,  on  her  way  to  General  Mansfield's  headquarters,  she  walked 


s.  A.  WEISS.  755 

along  the  river-shore,  alone  and  unprotected,  encountering  the  Federal 
soldiers  in  the  woods  and  hollows,  in  parties  of  from  two  to  twenty, 
coarse  and  brutal  in  appearance,  most  of  them.  From  these  men, 
despite  their  unpromising  exteriors  and  character,  she  received  various 
acts  of  rough  courtesy,  such  as  the  pulling  down  of  a  fence  for  her  to 
pass,  or  placing  a  log  over  a  wet  place,  so  that  she  could  cross  dry- 
shod.  A  most  remarkable  journey  this,  at  the  circumstances  attend 
ing  which  even  the  Federal  officers  expressed  surprise.  Her  petition 
was  granted  by  General  Mansfield,  who  sent  her  home  in  a  private 
carriage,  with  an  escort  and  a  flag  of  truce. 

Frequently,  applications  would  be  made  to  her  from  both  sides  for 
meetings  or  exchanges,  without  the  formality  of  a  flag  of  truce ;  the 
Federal  officers  courteously  sayjng  that  they  would  accept  her  pres 
ence  as  an  assurance  of  good  faith  —  a  sure  appeal  to  the  chivalrous 
sentiment  of  the  Southern  soldier.  Among  the  officers  whom  Mrs. 
Weiss  met  on  this  occasion  were  several  true  gentlemen,  who  befriended 
her  during  the  war,  and  who,  since  the  war,  as  circumstances  would 
allow,  have  been  equally  friendly  in  their  conduct  toward  her.  They 
knew  her  for  what  she  professed  to  be  —  a  firm,  yet  open  and  honor 
able  enemy,  doing  whatever  she  could  for  the  Southern  cause,  yet  in  a 
strictly  honorable  way,  and  never  betraying  them  where  they  had 
trusted  her.  This  was  all  understood  by  General  Mansfield's  officers, 
who  seemed  to  understand  the  character  of  a  Southern  woman  more 
fully  than  any  of  those  with  whom  Mrs.  Weiss  met,  and  to  respect  her 
accordingly. 

From  her  windows,  Mrs.  Weiss  witnessed  the  famous  battle  on  the 
6th  of  March  between  the  "  Merrimac  "  and  the  United  States  fleet, 
aided  by  the  "  Monitor."  She  also  witnessed  the  passage  of  McClel- 

lan's  army  past  Captain  's  house,  in  their  "  On  to  Richmond  " 

movement  by  the  way  of  the  Peninsula ;  also  the  attack  upon  our 
pickets,  and  their  final  retreat.  The  day  previous  to  this,  General 
Magruder  sent  two  of  his  staff  officers  with  a  lady's  horse,  urging  Mrs. 
Weiss  to  come  into  the  Confederate  lines  at  once  for  safety.  Feeling 
confident  that  she  would  not  be  disturbed,  however,  she  remained  at 
the  house.  The  result  proved  unfortunate.  On  the  1st  of  April,  a 
regiment,  commanded  by  Colonel  Vinton,  (a  son  of  Dr.  Vinton,  of 

Trinity  Church,  New  York,)  was  sent  to  guard  Captain 's  house. 

During  the  evening  of  the  first  day  of  their  arrival,  Vinton  begged 
the  favor  of  an  interview  with  Mrs.  Weiss.  Mrs.  Weiss  considered 


756  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

this  rather  in  the  light  of  an  order,  and  granted  the  interview.  For 
three  hours  he  kept  her  in  conversation,  in  which  she  expressed  her 
self  fully  and  freely  on  the  subject  of  the  war,  Vinton  observing  at  the 
commencement  of  the  interview:  "We  are,  politically,  enemies;  but  I 
trust  that  we  may  be,  personally,  friends.  Do  not  hesitate  to  speak 
freely  to  me,  on  my  honor  as  a  gentleman  and  a  United  States  officer." 
On  rising  the  next  morning,  Mrs.  Weiss  discovered  that  all  her  jour 
nals,  papers,  etc.,  had  been  removed  from  her  desk ;  and  an  hour  after 
an  officer  quietly  presented  himself  at  her  door,  and  handed  her  a  note 
from  General  Keyes,  which  contained  the  information  that  that  officer 
requested  to  see  her  at  his  headquarters  in  camp.  Convinced  that  she 
was  a  prisoner,  and  that  no  course  was  left  her  but  to  obey,  she  pre 
pared  for  travel,  and  accompanied  the  officer  to  the  general's  ambu 
lance,  in  waiting.  Here  she  was  met  by  General  Davidson,  who 
assured  her  that  she  was  "  under  the  care  and  protection  of  gentlemen, 
and  should  be  treated  as  a  lady."  After  a  rough  ride,  they  reached 
General  Davidson's  tent,  which  he  caused  to  be  prepared  for  her  recep 
tion —  with  a  tent-cloth  on  the  floor  by  way  of  carpet,  and  a  silken, 
table-cover  on  the  rough  pine  board,  replacing  the  common  tumbler 
with  a  silver*  drinking-cup.  After  remaining  here  for  a  few  hours, 
they  proceeded  to  General  Keyes's  tent.  General  Keyes  was  very 
courteous,  insisting  upon  her  taking  some  refreshment,  and  treating 
her  with  all  respect. 

From  General  Keyes's  headquarters,  Mrs.  Weiss  was  ordered  to  be 
sent  to  Fort  McHenry.  On  her  way  thither,  as  indeed  had  been  the 
case  from  the  first  moment  of  her  arrest,  there  was  no  indication  of 
her  being  a  prisoner.  She  was  treated  everywhere  with  the  utmost 
courtesy.  General  Keyes  said,  however,  that  he  considered  her  a 
most  dangerous  enemy ;  and  that,  "  much  as  he  disliked  troubling  her, 
duty  compelled  him  to  remove  her  beyond  the  possibility  of  influ 
encing  either  Federal  or  Confederate  officers."  She  was  first  sent  to 
Newport  News,  where  the  officers  of  General  Mansfield's  staff  expressed 
great  indignation  at  her  arrest.  She  was  informed  by  them  that  she 
had  been  made  a  prisoner  on  complaint  of  Colonel  Vinton  and  of  a 
renegade  Virginian,  one  Major  Sage,  of  Fairfax,  whom  she  had  offended 
by  some  remark.  Efforts  were  made  by  General  Mansfield's  staff  to 
secure  her  release  of  General  McClellan  ;  but  without  success. 

On  the  4th  of  April,  Mrs.  Weiss  reached  Fort  McHenry.  There, 
fortunately,  in  the  commander  of  the  Fort,  General  William  W.  Mor- 


s.  A.  WEISS.  757 

ris,  she  recognized  an  old  friend,  who  had  known  her  from  her  infancy, 
and  who  was  well  acquainted  with  her  family.  General  Dix's  orders 
upon  the  subject  of  her  imprisonment  were  very  severe.  His  instruc 
tions  were  that  she  was  to  be  locked  up,  and  kept  in  a  solitary  prison, 
and  was  never  to  be  allowed  t^  see  or  speak  to  any  one,  except  Gen 
eral  Morris  and  the  officer  of  the  guard.  One  or  two  other  lady 
prisoners,  recently  released,  had  been  subjected  to  similar  treatment. 
Mrs.  Weiss  made  no  complaint,  no  petition  or  compromise.  She  three 
times  declined  to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance,  which  was  offered  to 
her  by  General  Morris,  acting  under  instructions  from  General  Dix. 
General  Morris  informed  her  upon  these  occasions  that  her  acquies 
cence  would  insure  her  her  liberty. 

That  Mrs.  Weiss's  existence  at  Fort  McHenry  as  a  prisoner  was 
not  entirely  devoid  of  the  amenities  of  life,  and  that  it  sometimes 
occurred  that  officers  of  the  United  States  Army  were  prompted  by 
generous  impulses  in  their  treatment  of  prisoners,  is  shown  in  Mrs. 
Weiss's  own  account  of  her  personal  experiences  while  at  the  Fort. 
Writing  of  these  days,  she  says  : 

"  To  General  Morris's  fatherly  kindness  and  indulgence  while  I  remained 
in  Fort  McHenry,  and  to  the  perfect  courtesy  and  respect  with  which  I  was 
treated,  I  have  no  words  to  do  justice.  He  wished,  in  order  to  secure  me 
greater  comforts,  that  I  should  give  parole  on  certain  points,  which  I  de 
clined.  How  he  tried  to  amuse  and  interest  me  in  my  loneliness,  passing 
many  a  half-hour  at  my  fireside  in  cheerful  conversation,  he  himself  escort 
ing  me  in  long  walks  around  the  ramparts,  or  inviting  me  to  sit  with  him 
on  his  own  piazza  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  and  exacting  for  me  from  every 
one  the  most  rigid  respect.  But  oh !  the  long,  solitary  hours,  in  which  I 
would  pace  up  and  down  my  bare  room,  thinking  of  my  country  and  of  my 
people  —  thinking  of  the  battle-fields  stained  with  precious  Southern  blood, 
and  praying,  as  I  had  rarely  before  prayed,  for  success  to  our  cause !  And 
then  the  lonely,  almost,  at  times,  maddening  feeling  of  my  powerlessness  in 
being  a  prisoner !  To  know  that  the  tide  of  life  was  surging  onward  without 
those  prison-walls,  while  I  remained  a  helpless  drift  upon  the  shore !  Only 
those  who  have  been  prisoners,  and  solitary  prisoners,  can  have  an  idea  of 
the  agony  and  torment  of  the  feeling.  I  do  not  wonder  that  people  die,  or 
go  mad  under  it. 

"  This  did  not  last  more  than  three  months.  At  the  end  of  that  time, 
General  Morris  gave  me  the  liberty  of  the  Fort.  He  allowed  no  guard 
about  me,  and  forbade  even  the  officer  of  the  guard  to  go  near  my  room, 
unless  sent  for  by  me  to  walk,  or  to  make  known  my  wants.  This  room 
was  in  itself  pleasant  enough  —  a  large,  airy  room  in  the  building,  occupied 


758  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

by  General  Morris  and  his  aide.  Gradually,  by  the  kindness  of  General  and 
Mrs.  Morris,  various  comforts  were  added,  until  it  came  to  be  quite  a  plea 
sant  and  cheerful  apartment.  General  Morris  permitted  me  to  walk  both 
within  and  without  the  Fort,  escorted  by  an  officer,  at  any  time  and  as  often 
as  I  liked.  He  allowed  me  to  see  secession  visitors  from  Baltimore,  who 
loaded  me  with  offerings  of  books,  flowers,  fruits,  and  canary-birds  as  prison- 
pets.  He  appointed  a  nice  little  German  girl  to  wait  on  me;  and  my  meals, 
though  taken  alone,  consisted  of  every  delicacy  and  luxury  that  could  be 
desired.  And  finally,  he  laid  out  a  little  garden-plot  in  front  of  the  house, 
and  there,  with  two  of  the  soldiers  to  do  rough  work,  we  amused  ourselves 
in  the  morning.  I  had  plenty  of  books,  writing  and  drawing  materials ; 
and,  on  the  whole,  but  for  my  anxiety  in  regard  to  the  progress  of  the  war, 
should  have  been  content.  It  was  here  that  I  wrote  the  '  Battle  of  the  M'-r- 
rimac,'  which  I  showed  to  General  Morris,  having  no  fear  of  him.  He  spent 
many  an  hour  in  endeavoring  to  convert  me  to  the  Union  cause ;  and  he 
remarked,  at  length,  that  I  was  the  most  obstinate  of  all  the  '  rebels '  that 
he  had  ever  had  under  his  charge.  I  shall  never  cease  to  think  of  him  ;  the 
kind-hearted,  benevolent  man,  the  firm  officer  and  courteous  gentleman,  as 
I  then  knew  him ;  and  to  regard  him,  and  also  his  wife,  with  the  deepest 
gratitude." 

During  her  imprisonment  at  Fort  McHenry,  General  Dix  was  re 
peatedly  petitioned  for  Mrs.  Weiss's  release  by  Federal  officers,  as  well 
as  by  Southern  sympathizers;  but  he  firmly  refused  acquiescence  with 
the  appeals.  He  declared  that  Mrs.  Weiss  should  not  be  released 
until  the  end  of  the  war,  if  it  should  last  ten  years,  as  he  dreaded  her 
influence,  as  a  writer  and  otherwise.  In  view  of  her  failing  health, 
General  Morris  again  urged  her  to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance,  which 
she  again  refused,  sending  word  to  General  Dix  at  the  time  that  she 
considered  such  a  proposal  to  a  Southern  woman  an  insult.  Her 
demand  for  a  trial  was  also  refused  by  the  same  officer. 

In  June,  Generals  Dix  and  Wool  were  appointed  to  an  exchange 
of  places,  the  former  taking  command  at  Fortress  Monroe,  and  the 
latter  at  Fort  McHenry.  One  of  General  Wool's  first  acts  was  to 
release  Mrs.  Weiss.  About  the  last  of  June,  she  left  Fort  McHenry 
for  Norfolk,  where  she  anticipated  meeting  friends.  At  Fortress 
Monroe,  she  encountered  General  Dix,  who  expressed  indignation  at 
her  release,  and  wno  gave  orders  that  she  should  be  watched,  and  not 
allowed  to  leave  Norfolk,  which  town  was  within  the  limits  of  his 
command,  and  also  that  her  correspondence  should  be  intercepted. 
Of  these  facts,  Mrs.  Weiss  received  private  information  from  a  Federal 


s.   A.  WEISS.  759 

officer,  whose  acquaintance  she  had  made  at  Newport  News,  and  who 
was  then  in  authority  in  Norfolk. 

In  this  condition  of  surveillance,  Mrs.  Weiss  remained  for  three 
months.  She  finally  resolved  to  run  the  blockade.  One  dark  night, 
she  left  Norfolk  in  a  small  boat,  travelled  up  the  river  past  Newport 
News  and  Captain 's  house,  the  scene  of  her  former  strange  expe 
riences,  past  the  patrolling  Federal  gunboats,  unseen,  as  far  as  Smith- 
field.  Thence  the  journey  to  Petersburg  was  made  on  foot  and  in 
market-carts,  in  disguise.  And  at  last  her  journey  was  completed, 
and  her  heart's  desire  accomplished  at  the  same  moment,  when,  from 
the  Capitol  at  Richmond,  she  saw  the  Confederate  flag  flying,  touched 
with  the  splendors  of  our  great  and  recent  victories  ! 

During  the  residence  of  Mrs.  Weiss  at  Captain 's  house,  on  the 

Peninsula,  she  had  many  opportunities  of  serving*  the  Southern  sol 
diers,  and  advancing  our  military  interests.  She  passed  important 
papers  to  and  fro  through  the  lines,  obtained  newspapers  for  our 
generals,  and  followed  any  directions  given  her,  these  being,  of  course, 
of  a  strictly  honorable  nature.  It  was  in  consequence  of  her  forward 
ing  a  message  to  General  Magruder,  regarding  the  small  force  at 
Newport  News,  just  after  the  sending  of  re-enforcements  thence  to 
Burnside,  that  the  Merrimac  made  her  attack  at  the  time  she  did, 
and  before  she  was  quite  completed.  She  acted  as  a  medium  merely, 
having  had  facilities  for  so  doing,  except  in  one  instance,  when,  after 
being  taken  prisoner,  and  while  on  her  way  to  Fort  McHenry,  she 
learned  from  various  officers  of  the  number  of  McClellan's  army,  the 
different  brigades,  his  plans,  etc ,  and  found  means  to  send  informa 
tion  to  General  Magruder  of  the  same,  and  that  McClellan  designed 
attacking  Yorktown,  believing  the  force  there  to  be  much  larger  than, 
as  she  knew,  it  in  reality  was.  Lesser  services  it  was  also  in  her  power 
to  render,  such  as  signalling  the  Confederate  pickets  of  the  approach 
of  attacking  parties,  or  of  ambuscades.  On  one  occasion,  an  oppor 
tune  signal  of  this  kind  saved  the  lives  of  forty  Confederate  soldiers, 
who  were  approaching  directly  on  an  ambuscading  party  of  German 
Federal  soldiers,  lying  in  wait  behind  a  fence.  And  again,  she  saved 

as  many  more  lives  from  an  ambuscading  party  on  Captain 's 

place,  by  descending  the  precipitous  bank  to  the  river  beach,  wading 
some  half  a  mile  through  the  tide,  and  making  her  way  through  a 
thick  and  tangled  wood  and  morass  to  one  of  the  Confederate  pickets, 
two  miles  distant,  whom  she  warned  of  the  danger,  just  in  time  to  stop 


760  SOUTHLAND    WHITER  8. 

the  approach  of  a  troop  of  cavalry,  whose  arrival  the  Federal  soldiers 
were  expecting.  During  the  winter  in  which  she  remained  at  Captain 

— 's,  being  the  only  person  allowed  to  approach  the  Confederate 
pickets,  she  used  regularly,  every  morning,  to  carry  the  poor,  halt- 
starved  men  a  plentiful  hot  breakfast  of  meat,  bread,  and  coffee.  Fre 
quently,  they  would  have  no  rations  but  bread  and  potatoes,  or  rice. 
Frequently,  too,  they  were  barefooted,  and  otherwise  unprotected 
against  the  severe  cold.  In  Richmond,  also,  as  did  most  of  the  South 
ern  women,  she  gave  her  attention  to  the  sick  and  wounded  in  the 
hospitals. 

It  was  upon  Mrs.  Weiss's  return  to  Richmond  from  her  imprison 
ment  in  Fort  McHenry,  that  she  commenced  writing  for  the  "Mag 
nolia  Weekly  "and  the  "Southern  Illustrated  News."  Up  to  that 
time,  she  had  written  exclusively  for  the  "  Southern  Literary  Messen 
ger,"  which,  however,  failed  to  give  her  any  compensation  for  her 
writings.  Up  to  the  time  of  her  commencing  to  write  for  the  two 
first-named  papers,  she  had  never  been  able  to  write,  satisfactorily,  a 
line  of  prose,  with  the  exception  of  one  inconsiderable  article  "  On 
Reading."  Poetry  had  been  to  her  as  the  breath  of  life,  and  her 
poems  had  occurred  to  her  almost  as  inspirations,  conceived  and  writ 
ten  out  on  a  moment's  impulse,  without  labor  or  difficulty  whatever ; 
and  in  several  cases,  (as,  for  instance,  in  the  case  of  "Summer  Noon 
day  Dreams,")  without  a  word  being  altered.  Then,  about  three 
years  before  the  war,  this  power  seemed  suddenly  to  desert  her  entirely; 
and  in  this  interval  she  wrote  nothing.  It  returned  as  suddenly  upon 
the  inspiration  of  the  war ;  but  again  as  suddenly  departed.  Since 
three  years,  she  has  not  written  a  line  of  poetry ;  but,  strangely  enough, 
prose  now  flows  readily,  and  almost  without  the  labor  of  thinking, 
from  her  pen.  Providence  seems  thus  to  have  provided  for  Mrs. 
Weiss,  at  the  very  moment  when  she  needed  this  capacity  as  a  sole 
means  of  support.  As,  like  most  Southerners,  she  has  lost  everything 
by  the  war,  happy  for  her  that  facility  with  her  pen  which,  in  a  meas 
ure,  supplies  the  absence  of  her  lost  fortunes ! 

Mrs.  Weiss  was  too  patriotic  to  regret  the  destruction  of  her  worldly 
goods ;  but  the  loss  of  friends,  and  especially  of  an  only  brother,  cher 
ished  by  her  with  a  sister's  devotedness,  who  was  drowned  in  the 
retreat  before  Sherman,  has  cast  a  permanent  shadow  over  her  life. 
Indeed,  since  the  day  when  Richmond  was  taken  possession  of  by  the 
Federal  army,  and  she  knew  that  the  war  was  over,  she  has  felt  "  as 


S.    A.    WEISS.  761 

one  who  raourneth  for  his  friends."  Mrs.  Weiss  is  not  entirely  hope 
less,  however,  of  a  future  recompense  for  the  trials  and  sufferings  of 
the  South.  "  Our  lost  cause,"  she  has  written,  "  is  as  dear  to  me  now 
as  ever;  and  I  glory,  even  while  I  mourn,  that  we  were  enabled  to  give 
to  the  world  the  glorious  spectacle  of  a  handful  of  men,  ragged,  worn, 
and  starved,  battling  with  strong  hearts  and  firm,  unshrinking  hands 
against  an  overwhelming  host  of  powerful  enemies;  and  I  believe  that, 
though  I  may  not  live  to  see  it,  the  day  will  come  when  that  cause 
will  reassert  itself,  and  that  so  much  precious  Southern  blood  has  not 
been  spilt  in  vain." 

There  is  one  other  event  connected  with  Mrs.  Weiss's  prison-life,  the 
recital  of  which  should  properly  be  incorporated  in  this  narrative  of 
her  checkered  experiences  during  the  earlier  years  of  the  war.  This 
event,  concerning  her  closely,  and  fraught  in  its  course  and  conclusion 
with  more  of  unhappiness  than  happiness,  involves  the  brief  story  of 
her  acquaintance  with  her  husband,  Lieutenant  Weiss,  of  the  Federal 
army,  and  her  final  marriage  to  that  gentleman.  Mrs.  Weiss  met 
her  future  husband  at  Fort  McHenry,  during  the  time  of  her  impri 
sonment  in  that  Fort.  As  officer  of  the  guard,  Mr.  Weiss  frequently 
accompanied  her  in  her  walks  about  the  Fort  and  upon  the  shore. 
Thus  thrown  together,  a  feeling  of  sympathy  prepared  the  way  in  the 
officer's  breast  for  the  entrance  of  a  stronger  impulse.  Their  frequent 
long  conversations  established,  in  a  few  weeks,  a  more  intimate  ac 
quaintance  than  could  have  been  effected,  under  ordinary  circum 
stances,  in  a  year,  and  Mrs.  Weiss  gave  him  her  promise  to  marry 
him  so  soon  as  she  should  be  at  liberty.  This  promise  was  given, 
however,  on  the  express  condition  that  he  should  resign  from  the  Fed 
eral  service,  and  in  due  time,  in  an  open  and  honorable  manner, 
espouse  the  cause  of  the  South ;  Lieutenant  Weiss  having,  under  her 
teachings,  professed  to  have  become  convinced  of  the  injustice  of  the 
war,  and  a  convert  to  Southern  principles. 

About  this  time,  Lieutenant  Weiss  was  ordered  South  with  his  regi 
ment.  As  there  was  also  a  probability  that  Mrs.  Weiss  would  be  sent 
farther  North,  he  insisted  upon  their  immediate  marriage,  in  order 
that  at  any  time,  if  need  were,  she  should  be  able  to  join  him.  This 
marriage  was  necessarily  private ;  and  in  order  to  avert  suspicion  and 
possible  punishment  for  infringement  of  prison  rules,  it  was  to  be  kept 
strictly  secret  until  he  could  join  her  at  the  South,  or  she  him  at  the 
North,  as  events  might  render  necessary. 


762  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

The  marriage  took  place  on  the  day  before  that  on  which  they  had 
expected  to  be  separated;  but  the  orders  were  countermanded,  and 
Lieutenant  and  Mrs.  Weiss  remained  at  Fort  Mdlenry  some  six 
weeks  longer.  It  was  at  the  spn  ial  reiju.-t  of  General  Morris  that 
.Mi--.  \\Yi~  was  subsequently  allowed  to  go  to  Norfolk,  where  she 
could  daily  see  her  husband,  who  was  at  that  time  stationed  at  Suffolk. 

In  August,  Lieutenant  Weiss  obtained  his  discharge,  and  hastened 
immediately  to  Germany,  in  order  to  settle  his  estate,  obtain  money, 
and  return  and  claim  Mrs.  Weiss  openly  as  his  wife.  It  was  under 
stood  that  he  was  to  meet  her  in  Norfolk  in  two  months,  Mrs.  Wei-.- 
iu  the  moan  time  going  to  Richmond. 

During  his  absence,  Mrs.  Weiss  received  two  letters  from  him. 
Then  for  three  years  she  neither  heard  from  nor  of  him.  This  inter 
ruption  to  their  correspondence  was  caused,  as  Mrs.  Weiss  afterward 
learned,  by  General  Dix's  intercepting  their  correspondence,  in  which 
manner  he  became  aware  of  their  marriage  and  their  plans.  As  Mr. 
Weiss  anticipated,  a  watch  was  set  upon  his  movements,  and  thus  was 
it  that,  at  first,  he  was  prevented  from  coming  South. 

After  her  return  to  Richmond,  Mrs.  Weiss  kept  her  marriage  a 
secret,  in  pursuance  of  her  understanding  with  her  husband.  Finally^ 
despairing  of  his  coming,  she  caused  the  announcement  of  her  mar 
riage  to  be  published,  and  then  made  various  attempts  to  join  him  in 
New  York,  where  she  supposed  him  to  be. 

For  the  purpose  of  her  contemplated  journey,  Mrs.  Weiss  was  com 
pelled  to  sell  everything  she  possessed,  even  to  necessary  clothing,  in 
order  to  raise  means  sufficient  to  reach  New  York;  and  with  her  infant 
child  and  her  faithful  negro  maid,  she  set  out  on  her  difficult  and  peril 
ous  venture.  After  several  days  of  travel,  mostly  on  foot,  for  there 
were  at  that  time  no  travelling  conveniences,  Mrs.  Weiss  succeeded  in 
reaching  the  Federal  lines  at  Williamsburg. 

One  step  more,  and  Mrs.  Weiss  would  have  been  placed  within 
reach  of  her  long-separated  husband.  But  upon  that  step  was  a  con 
dition —  she  must  take  the  oath  of  allegiance.  At  this  alternative 
she  did  not  for  a  moment  hesitate;  but,  with  a  sinking,  sorrowful  heart, 
she  turned  to  retrace  her  weary  journey  back  to  Richmond.  Night 
fall  found  them  in  the  midst  of  a  dense  wood,  where  Mrs.  Weiss  was 
robbed  of  all  her  little  possessions  by  two  Union  men  who  had  prom 
ised  to  guide  them.  Even  her  baby's  scanty  little  wardrobe  was  not 
spared  by  these  ruffians.  For  five  miles  farther  through  the  darkne.-s 


s.  A.  WEISS.  763 

they  walked,  passing  numerous  houses  which  had  been  burnt  by  the 
Federal  troops,  and  finally  came  to  a  ruined  farm-house,  still  occupied 
by  the  women  of  the  family,  whose  husband  and  sons  had  all  been 
killed  in  battle.  This  family  gave  to  the  wanderers  all  they  had  —  a 
little  milk  and  a  small  quantity  of  bread.  At  this  ruined  but  hos 
pitable  home  they  rested  awhile;  and  then,  resuming  their  journey, 

they  reached  the  house  of  Dr. ,  in  New  Kent  County.    Here  they 

were  received  kindly,  and  were  assisted  on  their  way  back  to  Richmond. 

On  the  fall  of  Richmond  —  opportunity,  until  that  time,  lacking  — 
Mrs.  Weiss  joined  her  husband  in  New  York.  But  it  would  seem 
that  churlish  fate,  not  content  with  clouding  the  earlier  years  of  her 
married  life  with  the  shadows  of  multiplied  disappointments,  had  re 
served  for  Mrs.  Weiss  an  unhappy  sequel  to  her  marriage.  That  future 
content  and  repose  which  should  have  sprung  from  adversity  and 
trial,  failed  her  when  most  the  promise  seemed  auspicious.  A  differ 
ence  of  opinion  between  her  husband  arid  herself  brought  about  a 
separation.  Mr.  Weiss  desired  to  send  their  little  boy  to  Germany,  to 
be  adopted  by  a  wealthy  brother  living  in  that  country.  The  natural 
impulse  of  a  mother's  heart  protested  against  this  action ;  and  when, 
ultimately,  the  choice  lay  between  her  husband  and  her  child,  she  and 
Mr.  AVeiss  parted ;  and,  with  her  child,  she  returned  to  her  desolated 
home,  where,  in  the  lonely  fort,  she  lived  with  the  child  a  solitary 
life  and  in  extreme  destitution.  None  of  her  relatives  offered  to  re 
lieve  her  in  her  necessitous  condition.  Her  marriage  with  a  Federal 
officer  offended  them,  and  she  was  thus  left  alone  to  struggle  with  for 
tune.  Subsequently,  Mrs.  Weiss  went  to  New  York,  where,  at  least, 
the  opportunities  for  one  of  her  cultivated  and  brilliant  intellect  were 
greater  than  in  the  devastated  South.  In  that  city,  she  entered  a  suit 
for  divorce  from  Mr.  Weiss,  which,  in  the  summer  of  1868,  was  in 
progress. 

In  this  reference  to  Mrs.  Weiss's  marriage,  the  writer  has  been  actu 
ated  by  a  desire  to  explain  to  many,  to  whom,  perhaps,  the  explana 
tion  brings  a  new  knowledge,  the  circumstances  attending  her  acquaint 
ance  with  and  marriage  to  Mr.  Weiss.  In  view  of  the  fact  that  this 
explanation  has  reference  to  events  than  which  none  could  be  more 
important  in  a  woman's  life,  and  which,  in  their  course,  were  known 
only  to  familiar  and  intimate  friends,  this  narrative  has  been  deemed 
necessary,  as  making  known  to  that  general  public  which  has  so  long 
admired  the  intellectual  woman,  those  truths,  intimately  associated 
with  her  life,  which  cannot  but  arouse  a  generous  sympathy. 


764  SOUTHLAND  WRITERS. 


CON  ELGIN. 

Con  Elgin  was  a  horseman  bold, 

A  chief  of  high  degree, 
And  he  hath  gone  with  twenty  men 

A-sailing  on  the  sea; 
Now  woe  the  hour  and  woe  the  strand 
When  Elgin  with  his  men  shall  land, 

Wherever  that  may  be. 

Con  Elgin  sought  the  stormy  isle 

Across  the  foaming  flood, 
And  he  hath  marched  with  all  his  men 

Into  the  Druid  wood, 
Where  dark  beneath  the  ancient  oaks 

The  Christian  temple  stood. 

Con  Elgin  slew  the  old  Culdee  — 
The  priest  with  silver  hair; 

He  slew  him  at  the  altar-stone 
In  sacerdotal  gear; 

He  slew  the  half-baptized  babe, 
And  its  mother,  young  and  fair. 

He  seized  the  sacramental  cup 

The  blessed  wine  to  drain ; 
He  mixed  it  with  the  Christian's  blood 

And  quaffed  it  yet  again; 
Then,  while  his  eyes  in  fury  roll, 
His  beard  he  cleanses  in  tfce  bowl  — 
But  there  is  on  his  blackened  soul 

An  everlasting  stain. 

Con  Elgin  lies  in  troubled  sleep 

Beneath  a  Druid  oak : 
Was  it  the  whisper  of  the  wind, 

Or  a  voice  to  him  that  spoke? 
"  Oh,  hard  of  heart  and  fierce  of  hand, 

I  sign  thee  with  a  sign : 
Where'er  thou  goest,  on  land  or  flood, 
O'er  icy  plain,  through  dusky  wood, 

Shall  loneliness  be  thine  I  " 


s.  A.  WEISS.  765 

Uprose  the  bloody  horseman  then, 

And  loudly  laughed  he : 
'I  bear  the  spell  and  wear  the  sign, 

Thou  old  and  weird  Culdee ! 
Now  by  the  shades  of  Odin's  hall, 
That  such  an  ill  should  me  befall, 

That  such  a  curse  should  be ! " 

And  loudly  laughed  his  followers 

As  round  about  they  stood : 
But  a  sudden  thrill  and  a  whisper  ran 

Through  the  ancient  Druid  wood; 
And  trembled  all  the  Valkyrmen 

As  round  about  they  stood. 

And  now  they  are  upon  the  sea, 

And  far  and  fast  they  go; 
For  lo!  the  storm  is  on  their  track  — 
The  waves  are  white  —  the  clouds  are  black, 

And  the  icy  breezes  blow. 
Oh,  that  the  storm  would  wear  away, 

And  the  winds  would  cease  to  blow ! 

Yet  darker  grows  the  fearful  night, 

And  loud  the  tempest's  shriek; 
They  cannot  see  each  other's  forms; 

Or  hear  each  other  speak : 
But  though  the  waves  the  wilder  grow, 
And  though  the  winds  the  fiercer  blow, 
With  stately  mast  and  steady  prow 

The  vessel  onward  rides : 
They  know  that  some  unearthly  hand 

The  broken  rudder  guides. 

A  sudden  lull  —  and  in  the  south 

There  dawns  a  misty  day ; 
There  is  no  cloud,  there  is  no  breeze, 
But  far  away  o'er  frozen  seas 

The  Borealis'  play  — 
A  ghastly  light,  like  that  which  lies 
Within  the  dying's  glazing  eyes. 

There  .is  no  life  in  all  the  scene, 
There  is  no  breath  —  no  sound  ; 


766  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

But  slowly  o'er  the  glassy  deep 
The  icy  bars  in  silence  creep, 

And  clasp  the  ship  around, 
Till  mast  and  sail  and  deck  alike 

In  icy  chains  are  bout.d. 

Gloom  on  the  vast,  unbroken  sky, 
And  stillness  on  the  air, 

And  loneliness  upon  the  sea, 
And  silence  everywhere; 

And  in  Con  Elgin's  hardened  heart 
A  stern  and  cold  despair. 

He  shrank  to  see  the  famished  crew, 
So  gaunt  were  they  and  grim; 

He  gazed  where,  sea  and  sky  between, 

In  lurid  haze  was  ever  seen 
The  sun's  unsetting  rim ; 

But  evermore  those  stony  eyes 
Glared  fixedly  on  him. 

He  spake  to  them  —  he  called  to  them- 
Then  came  a  silence  dread ; 

For  lo,  upon  the  northern  skies 

Strange  gleams  of  lurid  light  arise, 
And  gather  overhead; 

They  gleam  upon  the  frozen  ship, 
And  on  the  frozen  dead. 

The  faces  of  the  dead  were  they, 
So  rigid,  wan,  and  blue ; 

Oh,  'twas  a  fearful  thing  to  stand 
Amid  that  lifeless  crew  ! 

And  thrice  Con  Elgin  drew  his  blade, 

And  thrice  his  iron  hand  was  stayed : 
Ah,  well  the  grasp  he  knew ! 

He  paces  on  the  icy  deck, 
He  chants  a  mystic  rune; 

He  cursed  the  long  and  weary  day, 
Yet  ended  all  too  soon, 

As  the  lurid  disk  of  the  blood-red  sun 
Sinks  suddenly  at  noon. 


s.  A.  WEISS.  767 

The  ghastly  dead  —  the  ghastly  dead  — 

They  chill  him  with  their  eyes ; 
The  silent  ship  —  the  lonely  sea  — 

The  far  and  boundless  skies! 
Oh,  that  some  little  breeze  would  stir, 

Some  little  cloud  arise! 

And  then  uprose  a  little  cloud  — 

Uprose  a  little  breeze  — 
And  came  a  low  and  slumberous  sound, 
Like  moaning  waves  that  break  around 

The  stormy  Hebrides : 
The  ice  is  rent  —  the  ship  is  free, 

And  on  the  open  seas ! 

He  saw  the  land  upon  his  lee  — 

He  strove  the  shore  to  gain; 
And  wild  and  fierce  his  efforts  grew, 

But  strength  and  skill  were  vain ; 
Still  onward  ploughed  the  fated  ship 

Unto  the  outer  main. 

A  sail,  a  sail!   "What  ho!   what  ho!" 

He  shouted  from  the  mast; 
And  back  there  came  a  cheering  cry 

Upon  the  rushing  blast: 
Their  very  life-blood  chilled  with  dread  — 
They  saw  the  living  and  the  dead 

As  swift  they  hurried  past ! 

And  long  upon  those  Northern  seas, 

At  silent  dead  of  night, 
A  cry  would  echo  on  the  blast, 
And  a  phantom  ship  go  hurrying  past  — 

A  strange  and  fearful  sight! 
And  well  the  trembling  sailors  knew 
Con  Elgin  and  his  ghastly  crew. . 


MADONNA. 

Madonna,  in  the  golden  light, 

Down-pouring  on  thy  pictured  form 

From  the  stained  window's  arched  height, 
Mellow,  and  rich,  and  warm — 


768  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Lighting  the  halo  on  thy  brow 
Into  a  living  glow, 

Till  scarce  their  radiance  seems  apart  — 
Like  light  and  clouds  at  set  of  sun 
Soft  melting  into  one: 

How  beautiful  thou  art! 
How  beautiful  —  as  if  in  thee 

All  we  might  deem  of  good  and  fair 
That  woman  hath  been,  and  should  be, 

In  mind  and  heart,  in  form  and  face, 

In  outward  charm  and  inward  grace, 
In  nature's  sweet  simplicity, 
Were  brightly  imaged  there. 

Thy  wavy  hair,  a  golden  shower, 

Upon  thy  brow  disposed  apart, 
Half  bound  beneath  the  white  veil's  fold, 
Half  down  thy  bosom  rolled 

In  graceful  negligence  of  art, 
Seems  like  the  golden-tinted  clouds, 

The  golden-threaded  clouds  of  eve 
Floating  upon  the  liquid  sea, 
The  waveless,  shoreless  sea, 

The  sea  of  light  the  yellow  sunset  leaves. 
Dimpling  upon  thy  parted  lip 

A  breathing  sweetness  seems  to  lie 
Like  fragrance  on  a  dewy  rose ; 

Pictured  alike  to  soul  and  sense, 

The  spirit  gently  breathing  thence 
Far  more  than  simple  words  disclose  — 

The  heart's  rich  eloquence  — 

Longing  to  pour  itself  in  prayer, 
Lest,  pent  within  thy  woman's  heart, 

Like  a  fountain  in  its  hidden  flow, 

The  still-increasing  waters  grow 
Too  mighty  in  their  deep  unrest  — 
Too  strong  for  thee  to  bear. 

Thine  eyes  beneath  their  drooping  fringe 

In  shadowy  lustre  gleam ; 
As  still  and  dark  their  heavenly  blue 

As  skies  within  a  crystal  stream, 
In  liquid  lustre  gleaming  through, 

So  still  and  softly  clear 


s.  A.  WEISS.  769 

We  scarce  may  pierce  their  depths  profound, 
Or  deem  their  beauty  hath  a  bound, 

Yet  ever  seeming  near. 
Softly  their  earnest  light  is  blent  — 

Love  and  sweet  humility  — 
Watching  with  mingled  smiles  and  tears 
Of  human  hopes  and  human  fears, 

The  baby  on  thy  knee ; 
The  blessed  babe  whose  starry  eyes 

Gaze  sweetly  upward  into  thine, 
Half  in  love  and  sweet  surprise, 

While  mingling  Avith  thy  locks  astray 
Loosely  within  their  baby  grasp 

The  scattered  tresses  twine. 

Gazing  upon  thy  pictured  form, 

The  woman's  earnest  soul  revealing, 
My  soul,  uprising  from  its  clay, 
Bends  lowly  to  a  purer  sway 

Of  more  than  earthly  feeling  — 
Something  trusting,  something  holy, 
On  my  spirit  dawning  slowly, 

With  a  beauty  half  divine, 
Till  thy  spirit,  meek  and  bright, 
Dawning  with  a  living  light 

Stealeth  slowly  into  mine ; 
Hushing  the  voice  of  earthly  ill, 

Binding  me  with  an  unfelt  thrall, 
And  taming  down  my  haughty  will 

To  a  perfect  love  of  all. 
For  the  meekness  in  thy  gentle  eyes 

Doth  meekness  to  my  spirit  bring, 
And  love  unto  my  yearning  heart 

For  every  living  thing. 


AIELEY. 

Oh,  greenly  grow  the  alder-boughs 
Upon  the  banks  of  Airley, 

And  on  the  silver  river's  breast 
The  lilies  blossom  fairly; 
17 


770  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

With  blithesome  echoes,  far  and  near, 
The  sylvan  shades  are  ringing, 

And  shrilly  in  the  hazel  copse 
The  merle  and  mavis  singing. 

But  Airley  towers  are  very  lone, 

And  Airley  halls  are  dreary  ; 
And  though  the  sun  he  bright  without, 

The  hearts  within  are  weary ; 
For  she  that  was  the  light  of  all, 

The  chieftain's  lovely  daughter, 
Hath  fled  away  with  Eoden's  knight 

Across  the  stormy  water. 

He  met  her  in  the  shady  wood ; 

He  wooed  her  by  the  river ; 
He  swore  by  all  the  shining  stars 

To  love  but  her  forever. 
And  first  she  smiled,  and  then  she  wept ; 

Her  heart  was  troubled  sairly: 
She  mounted  on  his  snowy  steed, 

And  fled  away  from  Airley. 

Her  cheek  was  like  a  summer  rose, 

Her  smile  like  summer  weather ; 
Her  fairy  footstep  left  the  dew 

Upon  the  purple  heather. 
Oh!  where  shall  we  another  find 

Whose  beauty  blooms  so  rarely  ? 
'Tis  morning  now  at  Roden's  halls, 

And  midnight  upon  Airley. 

Yet  dwelleth  she  a  happy  bride 

Beyond  the  stormy  water, 
And  singeth  in  the  stranger's  halls 

The  songs  her  mother  taught  her: 
Oh !  we  shall  mourn  her  many  a  day ; 

Oh!  we  shall  miss  her  sairly; 
Yet  happy  is  the  Roden  chief 

To  win  the  pride  of  Airley. 


S.    A.    WEISS,  771 


THE  BATTLE   EVE. 

I  see  the  broad,  red,  setting  sun 

Sink  slowly  down  the  sky ; 
I  see,  amid  the  cloud-built  tents, 

His  blood-red  standard  fly; 
And  mournfully  the  pallid  moon 

Looks  from  her  place  on  high. 

O  setting  sun,  awhile  delay ; 

Linger  on  sea  and  shore; 
For  thousand  eyes  now  gaze  on  thee, 

That  shall  not  see  thee  more; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  proudly  now, 

Whose  race,  like  thine,  is  o'er ! 

O  ghastly  moon,  thy  pallid  ray 

On  paler  brows  shall  lie, 
On  many  a  torn  and  bleeding  breast, 

On  many  a  glazing  eye ; 
And  breaking  hearts  shall  live  to  mourn, 

For  whom  't  were  bliss  to  die. 


THE  GREAT  STRUGGLE. 

Let  the  world  be  hushed  in  awe, 
Let  the  nations  stand  and  gaze, 

And  the  distant  lands  and  the  isles  afar 
Be  wrapt  in  a  still  amaze, 

While  the  wondrous  drama  is  acting  on 
In  these,  the  wondrous  days. 

Lo !  the  waves  of  the  Southern  seas 
Are  black  with  a  hostile  fleet ;          t 

And  the  very  earth  to  its  centre  shakes 
With  the  tramp  of  a  myriad  feet, 

Where  army  and  army  are  drawing  nigh 
Nation  and  nation  meet. 

From  the  realms  of  the  chilly  North, 
From  the  East  to  the  Western  shore, 


772  SOUTHLAND    WBITERS. 

The  countless  numbers  are  pushing  down, 

The  gathering  legions  pour; 
And  they  swear  that  the  plains  of  the  sunny  South 

Shall  be  steeped  in  Southern  gore. 

Swords  for  the  strong  and  brave  — 

Chains  for  the  proud  and  free! 
Death  to  the  hands  that  dare  to  strive 

For  a  freeman's  liberty ! 
And  they  cry  aloud,  in  their  boastful  pride, 

"Let  the  world  stand  still  and  seel" 

Forward!  ye  hireling  hordes, 

And  redeem  your  haughty  boast ; 
For  lo !  the  plains  of  the  roused  South 

Are  dark  with  a  gathering  host, 
From  the  boundless  wastes  of  our  Western  land 

To  Virginia's  sea-beat  coast. 

Steadily  on  they  come, 

With  their  bearing  proud  and  high ; 
The  fiery-souled  and  dark  Creole, 

And  the  hunter  with  eagle-eye ; 
And  there,  with  a  freeman's  mien  of  pride, 
The  toil-worn  cottier,  side  by  side 

With  Virginia's  chivalry ! 

A  noble  race,  and  brave ! 

Meet  for  a  nation's  need; 
Ready  to  die  a  martyr's  death 

As  to  dare  a  hero's  deed ; 
Marching  with  firm  and  steady  step 

Where  their  noble  chieftains  lead. 

Gaunt  with  famine  and  toil, 
They  pant  through  the  summer  heat, 

And  their  rags  are  turned  to  a  coat  of  mail 
In  the  icy  winter-sleet; 

And  the  snow  of  the  mountain-top  is  tracked 
By  their  bare  and  bleeding  feet. 

Yet  steadily  on  they  come, 

That  stern,  determined  band, 
With  the  trusty  rifle  firmly  grasped 

In  each  bare  and  sunburnt  hand. 


s.  A.  WEISS.  773 

Thank  God !  thank  God  for  the  noble  hearts 
That  defend  our  glorious  land! 

Yea,  plumed  and  pampered  hosts, 

Ye  may  laugh  aloud  in  scorn ; 
But  the  day  is  near  when  your  pride  shall  fall, 

And  your  glory  shall  be  shorn ; 
And  likely  shall  ye  curse  the  day 

That  ever  your  chiefs  were  born. 

Stand  still,  O  earth,  and  gaze, 

As  the  wondrous  hour  draws  near; 
For  lo !  they  meet  with  a  mighty  shock, 

That  the  very  world  may  hear  — 
The  sons  of  the  canting  Puritan 

And  the  noble  Cavalier. 

As  once  upon  England's  soil 

They  met  in  the  deadly  fray  — 
The  Roundhead  and  the  Cavalier  — 

So  again  they  meet  to-day ; 
With  a  hate  which  time  may  never  quell, 

Nor  the  world  may  wipe  away. 

They  meet  as  the  ocean  waves 

Meet  the  firm  and  living  rock, 
When  wave  upon  angry  wave  comes  on, 

With  a  mighty  roar  and  shock. 
Yea,  steadfast  stand,  ye  Southern  bands, 

And  their  impotent  fury  mock  ! 

Broken,  and  shattered,  and  torn, 

They  recoil  with  an  angry  roar  ; 
And  again  they  gather,  again  come  on 

In  a  mightier  strength  than  before; 
And  again,  again  they  are  backward  hurled, 
And  the  strength  of  the  conflict  shakes  the  world, 

And  the  earth  is  steeped  in  gore. 

O  dwellers  of  sunny  France, 

And  of  England's  pleasant  strand, 
Can  ye  look  on  a  conflict  such  as  this, 

And  calmly  and  coldly  stand  ? 
Can  ye  see  us  strive,  in  this  trying  hour, 
'Gainst  the  bloody  host  of  a  tyrant  power, 

And  lend  no  helping  hand? 


774  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

We  looked  to  you  in  vain, 
Yet  our  souls  are  not  dismayed; 

On  a  higher  power  than  aught  of  earth 
Are  our  steadfast  spirits  stayed; 

For  the  God  of  battles  is  on  our  side, 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  shall  aid. 

Hark!  through  the  mourning  land  — 
It  is  woman's  earnest  call ; 

From  the  cottier's  hearth  it  comes, 

And  the  old  ancestral  hall : 
"  Save  us,  your  wives  and  children  dear, 
From  the  tyrant's  hated  thrall! 

"  Be  true,  0  Southern  men, 

Even  as  we  are  true; 
And  let  the  thought  in  the  darkest  hour 

Your  fainting  souls  renew, 
That  still  our  tireless  fingers  toil 
And  our  prayers  ascend  for  you. 

"  Stand  fast,  ye  Southern  men  I 

In  the  strength  of  the  Lord  be  strong ! 

The  glorious  day  shall  dawn  at  last, 
Though  the  night  be  dark  and  long; 

And  God  shall  protect  our  nation's  rights, 
And  avenge  our  country's  wrong!" 


MRS.  CONSTANCE  GARY   HARRISON. 

fTIHE  subject  of  this  short  sketch,  whose  maiden  name  was  Constance 
-L  Gary,  and  who  is  best  known  to  Southern  literature  under  her 
nom  de  plume  of  "  Refugitta,"  is  the  daughter  of  the  late  Archibald 
Gary  and  of  Monimia  Fairfax,  his  wife,  both  representatives  of 
ancient  families  of  Virginia.  Mrs.  Harrison  is  the  elder  of  two  chil 
dren,  and  was  born,  we  believe,  in  Mississippi,  to  which  State  her 
father  had  removed,  shortly  after  his  marriage,  for  the  purpose  of 
practising  his  profession,  the  law.  Mr.  Gary  was  a  gentleman  of  fine 
literary  abilities,  and  during  his  residence  in  Mississippi  was  associated 
in  the  editorship  of  a  newspaper  at  Port  Gibson,  the  place  of  his  resi 
dence.  Mr.  Gary  subsequently  removed  to  Cumberland,  Maryland, 
where  he  became  proprietor  and  editor  of  the  "  Cumberland  Civilian," 
which  journal  he  edited  up  to  the  time  of  his  death. 

At  the  breaking  out  of  the  war,  Miss  Gary  was  residing  with  her 
mother  at  "  Vancluse,"  about  three  miles  from  Alexandria,  Virginia, 
for  many  years  the  country-seat  of  the  Fairfax  family,  and  the  former 
home  of  her  maternal  grandfather,  Thomas  Fairfax.  Like  many 
others,  overtaken  by  the  coming  of  war,  Miss  Gary  became  a  "refugee," 
a  term  understood  with  a  mournful  distinctness  by  thousands  of  the  best 
and  noblest  of  the  South,  and  sought  shelter,  accompanied  by  her  mother, 
in  Richmond,  in  which  city  she  remained  until  the  close  of  the  war. 

It  was  in  Richmond  that  Miss  Gary  first  wrote  under  the  name  of 
"  Refugitta."  From  both  father  and  mother  she  had  inherited  a 
decided  literary  taste  and  aptitude ;  and  hence  the  lively,  sparkling 
sketches  which  appeared  under  that  name  in  the  literary  papers  of  the 
Confederate  capital,  displayed  a  more  than  usual  vigor,  and  their 
vivacity  of  style  earned  for  their  fair  author  no  little  reputation  and 
applause.  Among  the  writers  of  the  four  years  of  warfare  that  befell 
the  South,  none  was  more  popular  than  "  Refugitta,"  especially  in 
Richmond,  where  were  published  most  of  her  writings. 

In  the  autumn  of  1865,  Miss  Gary  went  to  Europe  with  her  mother, 
remaining  there  about  a  year.  Some  time  after  her  return  to  the 
United  States,  she  was  married  to  Mr.  Burton  N.  Harrison,  who, 
during  the  war,  was  attached  to  the  person  of  Mr.  Jefferson  Davis  in 
the  capacity  of  private  secretary.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harrison  at  present 

reside  in  New  York. 

775 


I 


M.  J.  HAW. 

N  the  fall  of  1863,  the  "  Southern  Illustrated  News,"  published  in 
Richmond,  had  the  following  announcement : 


"AN  ILLUSTRATED  ROMANCE! 
"PRIZE  OF  ONE  THOUSAND  DOLLARS! 

"  Having  engaged  the  services  of  a  corps  of  competent  engravers,  who  are 
confidently  expected  to  arrive  in  the  Confederacy  in  a  few  weeks,  the  pro 
prietors  of  the  '  Illustrated  News '  will  award  a  prize  of  one  thousand  dollars 
to  the  author  of  the  best  illustrated  romance,  to  be  submitted  to  them  between 
the  present  date  and  the  1st  of  November  next. 
"  September  5th,  1863." 

The  time  was  extended  to  the  1st  of  December. 

March  1st,  1864,  the  "  News  "  announced  that  the  prize  for  the 
best  romance  had  been  awarded  to  Miss  M.  J.  Haw,  of  Hanover 
County,  Virginia,  for  her  story,  entitled  "  The  Rivals :  A  Tale  of  the 
Chickahominy." 

The  "  committee "  stated  that,  "  in  recommending  the  superiority 
of  '  The  Rivals,'  they  base  their  preference  upon  the  fact  that  to  its 
other  excellences  is  added  that  of  unity.  The  story  itself  is  written 
with  a  pleasing  simplicity  of  style  and  a  freshness  of  interest." 

Miss  Haw  had  been  a  contributor  to  the  "  Magnolia  "Weekly,"  of 
tales,  etc.,  signed  with  her  initials,  the  only  objection  to  which  were 
the  sombre  backgrounds.  "  The  Beech Avood  Tragedy  "  was  the  title 
of  the  first  story  we  ever  read  from  "  M.  J.  H.'s  "  pen.  The  prize 
romance  was  her  most  ambitious  and  most  successful  effort. 

Miss  Haw  had  the  misfortune  to  reside  during  the  war  "  in  the 
midst  of  battle-fields,"  and  suffered  from  marauders  and  so-called 
scouting  parties.  The  close  of  the  war  found  her  "  moneyless,"  and 
since  that  time  she  has  written  nothing,  save  a  few  articles  for  the 
"  Christian  Observer,"  having  to  struggle  too  desperately  for  bread 

to  have  any  time  for  literature. 

776 


MRS.  MARY   WILEY, 

("  Margaret  Stilling.") 

T)  EMARKED  a  distinguished  critic,  "A  nom  de  plume,  in  my 
J-Vi  opinion,  should  express  character.  Now,  the  best  that  I  have 
seen  in  the  South  is  that  one  of  '  Margaret  Stilling.'  It  attracted  my 
attention  at  once."  "  Margaret  Stilling  "  (the  nom  de  plume  of  Miss 
Mary  Evans)  is  a  native  and  resident  of  Amelia  County,  Virginia. 
Her  father,  Dr.  M.  H.  Evans,  was  a  physician  of  some  eminence  ia 
his  profession.  Her  mother,  who  contributed  poems  to  the  "Southern 
Literary  Messenger,"  many  years  ago,  and  published  a  volume  of 
poems  at  Philadelphia  in  1851,  was  of  Northern  birth  —  a  Miss  Stock 
ton,  related,  I  believe,  to  the  celebrated  Commodore  Stockton. 

The  subject  of  this  sketch  was  educated  at  the  North,  and  is  an 
elegant,  accomplished  woman,  of  high  intellectual  and  musical  cul 
ture,  and  a  brilliant  conversationist. 

During  the  war,  Miss  Evans  was  a  teacher,  yet  found  time  to  cul 
tivate  the  muses,  to  the  pleasure  of  the  "  blockaded  "  Southrons,  con 
tributing  her  elegant  productions  in  prose  and  verse  to  the  "  Con 
federate  "  literary  journals.  Since  the  war,  she  has  become  Mrs. 
William  Wiley,  and  we  presume  household  duties  usurp  the  hours 
hitherto  devoted  to  the  pen. 


A  BUNCH  OF  FLOWERS. 

Across  the  leaves  bright  sunshine  fell, 

Touching  their  green  with  gold, 
And  tingeing,  as  some  lustrous  shell, 

Each  rosebud's  crimson  fold. 

A  dewy  network's  pearly  bands 

Set,  diamond-like,  with  light, 
Stretched  o'er  each  flower  its  gleaming  strands, 

With  moonlight  radiance  bright. 

777 


778  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

While  many  a  tiny,  trembling  spray, 
Some  liquid  star-drop  brushing, 

Would  flash  from  thence  one  silver  ray, 
And  show  a  rosebud's  blushing. 

With  mute  delight  I  gazed  on  all, 
Some  charm  my  spirit  thrilling, 

Hearing  His  voice  through  nature  call, 
Each  mystic  yearning  stilling. 

Then  'gainst  the  wall  the  shadow  fell, 
An  outline  dim  and  strange, 

As  if  the  colors,  limned  so  well, 
Had  known  some  wondrous  change. 

'T  is  thus,  O  heaven,  thy  glories  bright, 
Fairer  than  star-gemmed  skies, 

Fall,  shadowed  with  uncertain  light, 
Before  our  sin-stained  eyes. 


OH !  TELL  ME,  MY  LOVE,  DO  THE  SHADOWY  SKIES. 

Oh !  tell  me,  my  love,  do  the  shadowy  skies, 

As  they  tremble  and  sparkle  above, 
Wake  not  the  lost  Hope,  with  her  beautiful  eyes, 

Shedding  glances  of  holiest  love? 

Hath  the  starlight  no  power  to  break  her  repose, 

Or  the  night-wind  to  kiss  her  again? 
The  flowers,  as  pale  as  the  purest  of  snows, 

Do  they  weep  for  her  presence  in  vain  ? 

Oh !  well  do  I  know  there  are  times  when  thy  heart 

Feels  again  that  sweet  rapture  of  love, 
When  the  flowers  and  sunshine  once  more  seem  a  part 

Of  those  vows  still  recorded  above. 

Our  love  was  in  sadness,  and  many  a  tear 

Fell  to  prove  how  immortal  its  birth, 
And  years  have  but  shown  how  surpassingly  dear 

It  exceeds  the  love  cradled  in  mirth. 


MARY    WILEY.  779 

For  tears  that  are  wrung  from  a  heart  that  is  true 

Seem  to  blend  with  a  sunlight  divine, 
And  a  shadowy  rainbow  against  the  deep  blue 

Like  a  signet  of  promise  doth  shine. 

'T  was  the  brightest  of  summers,  and  thus  every  year 

Hath  a  season  when  memory  weeps ; 
The  soul  feels  a  sadness  too  deep  for  a  tear, 

As  the  vigils  of  sorrow  it  keeps. 

Then  tell  me,  O  love,  do  the  shadowy  skies, 

As  they  tremble  and  sparkle  above, 
Wake  not  in  thy  heart  all  the  terrible  cries 

Of  a  stifled  and  passionate  love? 

I  've  marked  in  thy  glances,  and  heard  in  each  word, 
That  the  thoughts  of  the  past  will  not  sleep ; 

I  know  there  are  times  when  a  voice  will  be  heard 
That  doth  make  thee  despairingly  weep. 

I  know  that  the  present  can  rivet  no  chain 

So  strong  as  the  linkings  of  this  ; 
I  feel  that  the  future  will  bless  us  again 

With  a  purer  and  holier  bliss. 

For  love  that's  immortal  can  never  be  stilled, 
And  the  lips  that  have  quivered  shall  smile; 

While  heaven  above,  that  its  being  hath  willed, 
With  the  brightest  of  joys  shall  beguile. 


THE  OCEAN  OF  DESPAIE. 

There  is  a  boundless,  surging  ocean, 

Beating  forever  a  dreary  shore, 
Where  darksome  waves,  with  a  restless  motion, 

Over  the  sands  in  anger  pour, 
With  a  muttering,  sullen  sound  of  fear, 
As  if  they  felt  some  horror  near. 

Nought  of  life  o'er  the  waters  gliding 
Breaketh  the  gloom  of  its  sunless  day  ; 

But  fearful  wrecks  by  its  shores  abiding 
Show  from  their  spars  a  ghastly  ray ; 


780  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

While  many  a  monstrous,  hideous  thing 
Loathsomely  to  their  aides  doth  cling. 

Bleaching  bones,  on  its  margin  shining, 
Telling  of  many  a  tale  of  woe, 

Point  where  the  breakers  are  dimly  hiding 
Darkly  under  the  waters'  flow  — 

Striving  to  show,  in  their  warrings  vain, 

Signs  of  many  a  bloody  stain. 

Up  from  its  depths  a  voice  of  wailing, 
Full  of  a  shuddering,  awful  fear, 

Over  the  billows  its  sad  length  trailing, 
Echoes  mournfully  far  and  near ; 

Lifting  itself  in  a  quivering  sigh, 

Far  in  the  dark,  o'erhanging  sky. 

Angry  clouds  on  its  bosom  shadow 
Many  a  gloomy,  hurrying  form, 

Wildly  with  dread  o'er  the  surging  billow 
Fleeing  fast  from  the  bursting  storm ; 

Looking  back  oft  with  a  face  of  woe, 

Strangely  pale  in  the  ghastly  glow. 

Alas  for  the  barks,  with  glad  hopes  freighted, 
Forever  lost  on  this  fatal  shore; 

Going  down  with  a  thunder  that  grated 
Hoarsely  above  the  ocean's  roar ! 

Who  can  tell  what  wild  agony  burst 

Over  the  soul  in  those  waters  curst? 

Vain  the  voice  of  their  earnest  warning; 

The  pleading,  sorrowing,  wild-toned  cry 
Cannot  reach  to  the  land  whose  dawning 

Recks  not  of  that  darkened  sky ; 
For  others  shall  steer,  not  heeding  the  sight, 
To  sink  as  they  in  darkest  night. 


OH!   LOVE,  DEAR  LOVE,  THE  QUIET  SKIES. 

Oh !  love,  dear  love,  the  quiet  skies 

Are  eloquent  with  tender  light; 
The  perfumed  night-wind  softly  sighs ; 

The  starlight  throbs  with  strange  delight. 


MARY    WILEY.  781 

A  thousand  blossoms  'neath  the  moon 

Lie  folded  with  their  treasured  sweets, 
More  beautiful  than  when  at  noon 

Their  sun-god's  smile  each  trembler  greets. 

My  queen  of  blossoms,  shall  the  night 

Shed  all  its  jewelled  splendor  down, 
And  seek  in  vain  that  form  of  light, 

So  worthy  of  its  fairy  crown  ? 

See  where  the  pearl-wreaths  on  the  grass 
Flash  softly  'neath  the  night-dew's  guise, 

Watching  to  see  thee  gliding  past, 
And  catch  the  splendor  of  thine  eyes. 

Oh !  love,  dear  love,  the  quiet  skies 

Cast  down  for  thee  that  tender  light; 
The  perfumed  night-wind  in  its  sighs 

Breathes  forth  thy  name  with  wild  delight. 

On  this  fair  eve  a  thought  of  love 

Pulses  through  nature's  heart  for  thee; 
Then,  while  the  starlight  throbs  above, 

Come  wander  forth  awhile  with  me. 

I  '11  read  a  story  in  those  skies, 

Where  sapphire  tints  of  brightest  blue 
Eeflect  the  splendor  of  thine  eyes, 

Like  olden  glories  blent  with  new. 

And  while  the  music  of  thy  voice 

Murmurs  thy  sweet  and  soft  replies, 
Like  some  rich  tune,  whose  notes  rejoice, 
Ere  on  the  breeze  it  slowly  dies, 

The  starlight,  with  its  silver  showers, 

The  misty  tints  of  melting  blue, 
The  scented  winds,  the  folded  flowers, 

Shall  plead  my  earnest  love  for  you. 


MISS  VIRGINIA  E.  DAVIDSON. 

THE  subject  of  this  notice  has  always  been  an  invalid.  Says  she, 
in  an  elegant  letter  to  the  writer:  "On  this  account  I  have  had 
the  misfortune  to  be  uneducated,  except  so  far  as  a  fine  private  library 
and  an  extraordinarily  intelligent  father's  conversation  and  explana 
tions  could  supply  the  painful  deficiency." 

She  is  the  daughter  of  Colonel  James  Davidson,  who  was  well  known 
in  Petersburg,  Virginia,  (the  home  of  Miss  Davidson,)  as  a  man  of 
remarkably  varied  information  upon  all  subjects  and  sciences,  and  who 
occasionally  wrote  verses.  On  her  mother's  side  she  is,  by  affinity,  con 
nected  with  the  Harrisons,  of  James  River ;  and  the  Glaibornes,  Maurys, 
and  Fontaines,  of  this  State.  Her  brother,  W.  F.  Davidson,  was  an 
officer  in  the  United  States  Navy,  and  was  considered  one  of  the  finest 
mathematicians  in  that  highly  educated  branch  of  the  service :  he 
also  wrote  poetry ;  and  a  sister  has  also  evinced  the  same  talent. 

To  best  illustrate  a  determined  spirit,  and  showing  what  can  be 
done  when  one  places  their  might  at  the  wheel,  we  would  mention 
that,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  to  use  her  own  words,  "  I  was  so  illiterate, 
I  did  not  know  or  even  understand  the  commonest  branches  of  educa 
tion,  until  one  night  a  friend,  younger  than  I,  came  to  spend  the  even 
ing.  She  contended  with  my  father  about  a  difference  of  opinion  of 
Hector,  and  then  of  Ajax,  Theseus,  and  Marc  Antony.  I  sat  fearful, 
lest  they  should  call  upon  me  as  umpire ;  for  I  was  entirely  ignorant 
of  these  heroes.  Fortunately,  the  conversation  turned  upon  the  beau 
ties  of  poetry:  upon  this  subject  I  knew  a  little,  and  gladly  did  I  avail 
myself  of  my  superficial  knowledge.  Ignorance  was  abashed,  and  I 
at  once  commenced,  without  consultation  with  any  one,  a  three-hours' 
task  of  ancient  history  and  mythological  reading,  until  history  became 
a  mania  and  an  idol.  This  was  the  commencement  of  my  education." 

At  the  close  of  the  war,  Miss  Davidson  was  no  better  off  than  the 
majority  of  her  Southern  sisters.  "  Necessity  is  the  mother  of  inven 
tion,  and  poverty  Is  the  fruitful  mother  of  energies,"  and  at  once  in 

782 


VIRGINIA    E.    DAVIDSON.  783 

Miss  Davidson  brain  and  will  and  determination  awoke,  and  she 
wove  the  incidents  detailed  to  her  during  social  hours  of  pleasant  asso 
ciation  during  the  war  into  book-form,  under  the  title  of  "  Bloody 
Footprints."  Some  of  the  incidents  of  this  volume  were  published  in 
the  "Southern  Opinion,"  Richmond,  under  the  name  of  "Virginia." 
Miss  Davidson  has  also  written  a  novel,  entitled  "  Philanthropist," 
and  one  which  she  has  called  "  Principle  and  Policy."  The  last 
named  is  now  in  the  hands  of  publishers  in  New  York. 


MISS  SALLIE  A.  BROCK 

IS  the  author  of  "  Richmond  During  the  War :  Four  Years  of  Per 
sonal  Observation,"  a  work  which,  had  she  written  nothing  else, 
would  deservedly  give  her  a  prominent  place  among  the  first  female 
writers  of  the  country.     Says  a  reviewer  in  a  Northern  journal : 

"  It  is  characterized  by  a  purity  of  style  and  thought,  a  delicacy  of  senti 
ment,  and  an  earnestness  of  conviction  that  are  too  rarely  found  in  the  pub 
lications  of  the  day.  The  hopes  and  fears,  the  resolution  and  self-sacrifice, 
the  sufferings  and  privations,  the  heroism  and  courage  displayed  by  the 
Southern  people,  are  described  with  all  the  warm  affection  and  loving  rever 
ence  of  a  true  woman's  heart  —  a  heart  whose  every  throb  beat  in  sympathy 
with  the  cause  of  the  South.  The  generous  and  noble  impulses  by  which, 
in  common  with  tens  of  thousands  of  her  Southern  sisters,  the  fair  authoress 
was  actuated,  are  manifested  in  the  general  style  and  character  of  the  sub 
jects  treated.  She  brings  to  her  task  a  mind  fully  stored  with  the  most 
minute  information  on  the  principles  in  controversy.  She  is  thoroughly 
conversant  with  the  causes  that  led  to  the  conflict,  and  this  knowledge  is 
employed  with  admirable  judgment  during  the  progress  of  the  work  for  the 
enlightenment  of  the  reader.  The  style  is  peculiarly  pleasing,  and  the  lite 
rary  character  of  the  book  is  of  the  highest  order.  Full  of  incident,  and  of 
stirring,  striking,  and  often  thrilling  scenes,  the  interest  of  the  work  never 
flags.  All  the  joyousness  of  victory  and  the  gloom  of  defeat,  all  the  glory 
and  all  the  horrors  of  war,  are  depicted  with  a  lifelike  vividness ;  and  the 
leading  characters  that  appear  upon  the  stage  are  painted  with  the  fidelity 
of  truth  itself.  The  title  of  the  volume  would  convey  the  impression  that 
the  scope  is  limited  to  Eichmond ;  but  this  is  not  so,  for  the  fair  authoress 
takes  in  the  whole  range  of  the  Confederacy,  and  describes  the  influence  of 
this  or  that  event  as  affecting  the  general  progress  of  the  contest.  There  are 
no  less  than  seventy-six  chapters  in  the  book,  a  fact  which  will  serve  to 
convey  some  idea  of  its  varied  interest.  The  first  opens  with  the  secession 
of  Virginia ;  and  the  last,  entitled  "  Life  in  the  Old  Land  Yet,"  breathes 
forth  words  of  hope  and  encouragement,  giving  a  glowing  picture  of  the 
future  of  the  South,  rousing  the  faint-hearted,  and  inspiring  the  despondent 
with  new  life  and  courage.  We  heartily  commend  '  Eichmond  During  the 
War '  as  one  of  the  most  interesting,  valuable,  and  best  written  volumes  that 
has  appeared  since  the  close  of  the  great  struggle." 


SAL LIE    A.    BROCK.  785 

Sallie  A.  Brock  is  a  native  of  Madison  Court  House,  Virginia,  an 
obscure  little  hamlet  among  the  hills  of  Piedmont,  and  overhung  by 
jutting  spurs  of  the  Blue  Ridge.  This  little  village  is  distinguished 
for  the  wild  and  romantic  character  of  the  surrounding  scenery,  and 
the  fair  intelligence  and  high  moral  standard  of  its  inhabitants ;  and 
Miss  Brock's  attachment  to  her  birthplace  is  shoAvn  in  the  pseudonym 
for  her  literary  efforts,  "Virginia  Madison."  And  this  very  appro 
priate  nom  de  plume  calls  particular  attention  to  the  many  inappro 
priate  ones;  and  it  is  a  cause  for  conjecture  why  so  many  elegant 
writers  show  such  questionable  taste  in  their  pseudonyms. 

Miss  Brock,  on  her  father's  side,  is  of  Welsh  descent.  In  England, 
the  Brocks  were  staunch  Royalists ;  and  one  of  the  name  sealed  his 
devotion  to  his  country  and  his  crown  by  his  blood,  upon  the  Heights 
of  Queenstown,  in  Canada. 

Her  mother,  whose  maiden  name  was  Buckner,  was  a  descendant, 
from  her  father,  of  the  Beverlys  and  the  Chews;  and  from  her  mother, 
of  the  Burtons,  the  Heads,  and  the  Marshalls,  all  names  inseparably 
connected  with  the  colonial  and  revolutionary  history  of  Virginia. 

Miss  Brock's  childhood  was  passed  in  her  native  village,  under  the 
tutelage  of  her  father  exclusively ;  and  later,  under  tutors  and  gov 
ernesses.  She  is  ignorant  of  what  is  usually  called  "  boarding-school 
experience." 

In  her  childhood,  she  was  fond  of  study,  and  devoted  to  sesthetical 
pursuits,  whether  growing  out  of  nature  or  of  art,  in  the  circumscribed 
sphere  of  her  acquaintance,  from  which,  strangely,  nothing  could 
attract  her  but  the  roll  of  the  drum  and  the  clangor  of  martial  music. 
Her  reward  for  merit  was  permission  to  go  out  of  school  to  watch  the 
drilling  of  the  officers  for  the  regular  spring  militia  muster.  Her 
soul  was  so  thrilled  with  enthusiasm,  and  her  pride  in  the  flag  of  our 
country,  "the  stars  and  stripes,"  so  intense,  that,  though  a  little  child 
when  the  Mexican  war  broke  out,  she  wished  she  was  a  man,  that  she 
might  follow  the  flag !  Her  enthusiasm  has  been  completely  crushed 
by  the  events  of  the  late  war.  How  terrible  was  the  revulsion  of  feel 
ing,  when  that  flag  was  used  as  the  ensign  for  expunging  the  liberties 
of  her  own  beloved  section,  only  God  can  know,  who  witnessed  the 
midnight  agony  of  soul  over  the  downfall  of  the  Confederate  cause. 

Will  God  hold  us  responsible  for  this  terrible  revolt  of  feeling? 
Has  he  implanted  within  us  emotions  of  patriotism  only  to  show  to  us 
the  narrow  compass  of  human  vision,  and  the  nothingness  of  ambition? 
18 


786  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Has  he  given  us  conceptions  of  right  and  wrong  only  to  vindicate  his 
power,  and  to  make  us  miserable  ? 

In  the  fall  of  1850,  Mr.  Brock  removed  to  the  University  of  Vir 
ginia,  where  his  daughter  spent  the  following  eight  years  of  her  life. 
There  her  sphere  for  improvement  was  sensibly  enlarged,  and  she 
enjoyed  the  advantages  of  society  as  moral,  refined,  highly  cultivated, 
and  intellectual  as  can  be  found  in  the  country.  Her  fondness  for 
books  grew  upon  her ;  in  the  course  of  time,  she  devoted  herself  to 
studying  oil-painting,  and  then  she  indulged  the  dream  of  author 
ship. 

In  the  winter  of  1858,  the  Brock  family  removed  to  Richmond,  and 
were  living  in  that  city  when  the  news  from  Sumter  announced  the 
breaking  out  of  hostilities.  Miss  Brock's  course  of  life  from  that  time 
was  changed.  Dreams  of  distinction  were  hushed  before  the  stern  de 
mands  of  duty.  There  was  much  for  her  to  do,  in  common  with  all 
of  her  Southern  sisters.  She  sewed  and  knitted,  and  nursed  and 
cooked,  and  watched  and  prayed,  during  the  four  years  of  the  war, 
in  service  for  the  South  and  her  soldiers;  while  the  delicate  health  of 
her  mother,  and  the  frequent  and  necessary  absences  from  home  of  her 
father  and  younger  brother,  threw  upon  her  the  cares  of  the  family. 
They  were  severe  and  onerous,  and  she  bore  them  with  fortitude,  feeble 
enough  as  she  watched  her  mother's  decline  to  the  grave.  This  was 
her  first  personal  sorrow ;  and  the  only  drop  of  consolation  she  tastes 
is  in  the  remembrance  that  she  has  been  rescued  from  the  great  national 
sorrow,  which,  like  the  raven,  "  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is 
sitting,"  brooding  over  the  wreck  of  the  buried  hopes  of  a  nation.  A 
total  change  in  circumstances  and  family  changes  have  drifted  Miss 
Brock  away  from  home  and  friends ;  and  she  is  now  residing  in  the 
city  of  New  York,  which  is  the  "literary  emporium  "  of  the  country, 
where  authors  much  do  congregate. 

"Virginia  Madison's"  muse  is  a  busy  one,  and  is  becoming  to  be 
appreciated  by  the  reading  world.  Writing  gives  Miss  Brock  intense 
pleasure,  and  her  writings  give  her  readers  no  less  delight. 

Her  second  volume,  a  collection  of  poems  from  Southern  poets,  is 
entitled  "  The  Southern  Amaranth,"  Wilcox,  publisher,  New  York, 
published  for  the  benefit  of  the  "Ladies'  Memorial  Association," 
(1869.)  This  volume  contains  many  poems  furnished  expressly  for 
this  work  by  the  authors ;  also,  many  beautiful  poems  from  the 
muse  of  the  gifted  editress.  Miss  Brock's  talents  are  of  a  versatile 


SALLIE    A.    BROCK.  787 

order,  excelling  in  fiction,  in  poetry,  and  in  what  a  woman  seldom 
does  well,  political  topics,  which  she  discusses  and  argues  knowingly 
and  eloquently.  She  has  established  a  reputation  as  a  writer,  of 
which  she  may  well  be  proud,  and  which  must  increase  with  time:  thus 
considered,  her  first  volume  may  be  looked  upon  as  a  bud  which  must 
be  followed  by  many  magnificent  blossoms,  which  we  firmly  hope  may 
be  fadeless. 


WHAT  IS  LIFE? 

"  What  is  Life?  "  I  asked  of  a  wanton  child, 

As  he  chased  a  butterfly  ; 
And  his  laugh  gushed  out  all  joyous  and  wild, 

As  the  insect  flitted  by. 

"  What  is  Life  ?  "  I  asked ;  "  oh,  tell  me,  I  pray  ! " 
His  echoes  rang  merrily,  "  Life  is  PLAY  !  " 

"  AVhat  is  Life  ?  "  I  asked  of  the  maiden  fair, 

And  I  watched  her  glowing  cheek 
As  the  blushes  deepened  and  softened  there, 
And  the  dimples  played  "  hide  and  seek." 
"  What  is  Life  ?     Can  you  tell  me  its  fullest  measure  ?  " 
She  smilingly  answered,  "  Life  is  PLEASUEE  ! " 

"  What  is  Life?  "  I  asked  of  a  soldier  brave, 

As  he  grasped  the  hilt  of  his  sword  ; 
He  planted  his  foot  on  a  foeman's  grave, 

And  looked  "  creation's  lord." 

"  What  is  Life? "  I  queried ;  " oh,  tell  me  its  story." 
His  brow  grew  bright  as  he  answered,  "  GLOKY  !  " 

"  What  is  Life?"  I  asked  a  mother  proud, 

As  she  bent  o'er  her  babe  asleep, 
With  a  low,  hushed  tone,  lest  a  thought  aloud 

Might  waken  its  slumber  deep. 

Her  smile  turned  grave,  though  wondrous  in  beauty, 
While  she  made  reply,  "  Life  — life  is  DUTY  !  " 

I  turned  to  the  father,  who  stood  near  by 

And  gazed  on  his  wife  with  pride  ; 
Then  a  tear  of  joy  shone  bright  in  his  eye 

For  the  treasure  that  lay  at  her  side. 
I  listened  well  for  the  tale  that  should  come : 
"  My  life !  "  he  cried,  "  my  life  is  HOME  !  " 


788  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

-  What  is  Life?"  I  asked  of  the  infidel; 
His  eyes  were  haggard  and  bleared ; 
Fierce,  mocking  sneers  from  his  thiu  lips  swell, 

And  his  heart  with  vice  was  seared. 
"What  is  Life,"  I  asked,  "in  its  ebb  and  flow?" 
With  an  oath  he  muttered,  "  Life  is  WOE  I " 

"  What  is  Life  ?  "  I  asked  of  the  invalid  wan, 

As  he  wheeled  to  the  grate  his  chair, 
And  frowned  as  through  the  casement  there  ran 

A  fluttering  breath  of  air. 
"  What  is  Life  ?  "  I  asked  —  I  asked  again : 
He  languidly  coughed,  and  answered,  "PAIN!" 

"  What  is  Life  ?  "  I  asked  of  the  statesman  grand, 

The  idol  of  the  hour ; 
The  fate  of  a  nation  was  in  his  hand  — 

His  word  was  the  breath  of  power. 
He,  sickening,  turned  from  the  world's  caress : 
"  T  is  a  bubble !  "  he  cried  —  "  't  is  EMPTINESS  ! " 

"  What  is  Life  ?  "  I  asked  of  the  miser  grim, 

As  he  clutched  his  well-filled  bag ; 
His  features  were  gaunt  and  his  figure  slim, 

His  garment  a  tattered  rag. 
"  What  is  Life?"  I  asked,  "the  story  unfold." 
"  Life,"  he  chuckled,  "  life  is  GOLD  !  " 

"  What  is  Life?  "  I  asked  of  the  student  of  books, 

Exploring  a  ponderous  tome ; 
There  are  curious  things  in  the  rare  old  nooks 

Whence  the  records  of  science  come. 
For  a  moment  he  turned  from  his  learned  perch, 
And  quickly  answered,  "  Life  is  RESEARCH  !  " 

"  What  is  Life?  "  I  asked  of  a  Christian  meek, 

As  she  knelt  before  a  shrine ; 
The  impress  of  Heaven  was  on  her  cheek, 

In  her  eyes  a  light  divine. 

"  What  is  life  ?  "  I  quastioned,  "  oh !  trace  me  its  path ! " 
She  pointed  upward,  and  whispered,  "  FAITH  ! " 

"  What  is  Life  ?  "  I  asked  of  a  man  of  care, 
Bending  under  the  load  of  years : 


SALLIE    A.    BROCK. 

He  ran  his  fingers  through  his  thin  gray  hair, 

And  his  eyelids  were  humid  with  tears. 
His  voice  trembled,  "  I  once  was  brave ; 
Life  is  a  shadow  that  points  to  the  GRAVE  !  " 

I  turned  and  asked  of  my  inner  heart 

What  story  it  could  unfold  ? 
It  bounded  quick  in  its  pulses'  start, 

As  the  record  it  unrolled. 
I  read  on  the  page,  "  Love,  Hope,  Joy,  Strife ! 
What  the  heart  would  make  it,  such  is  LIFE  !  " 


THE   SOLDIER'S    HOME. 

"  You  will  go  home  now,"  said  a  lady  of  Richmond  to  a  gallant  Mississippian,  after 
the  surrender  of  the  armies  of  the  Southern  Confederacy.  "  Home  ! "  he  echoed  sadly, 
while  a  manly  tear  glistened  in  his  calm,  blue  eye :  "  Home —  alas  !  mother  earth  is  my 
only  couch,  and  the  canopy  of  the  heavens  my  covering.  What  was  once  a  home  is  now 
a  monumental  ruin.  I  have  no  home,  unless  it  be  in  the  hearts  of  kind  and  generous 
friends." 

Is  it  where  his  infant  feet  have  trod 

In  the  joy  of  childish  glee, 
Like  the  woodland  bird  with  its  merry  song, 

'Neath  the  boughs  of  the  parent  tree? 
Is  it  where  his  boyhood's  days  were  passed, 

And  youth's  bright  dreams  began, 
Where  ambition's  dawn,  with  its  kindling  pride, 

Gave  promise  of  the  man  ? 

Has  the  soldier  there  a  home  ? 

Where  the  cane  in  rank  luxuriance  grows 

In  the  warmth  of  the  genial  sun, 
Where  the  "  Father  of  Waters  "  in  his  mighty  course 

And  giant  strength  doth  run  ? 
Where  the  cotton  throws  out  its  snowy  fleece, 

Or  in  that  bright  "  Land  of  Flowers  " 
Where  the  orange-tree  yields  its  golden  fruits, 

And  the  wild  rose  wreathes  its  bowers  — 
Oh !  has  he  there  a  home? 

In  the  rich  savannas  of  the  South, 

Where  springs  the  pearly  grain  ; 
Where  the  live-oak  rears  its  kingly  head 

O'er  the  forest-trees  to  reign  ? 


790  SOUTHLAND     WRITERS. 

Where  the  sweet  magnolia  scents  the  gale 
And  the  jessamine's  perfume; 

Where  the  myrtle  wild,  with  its  livery  bright, 
Doth  lighten  the  forest's  gloom? 

Not  there  is  the  soldier's  home. 

Is  it  where  the  tall  palmetto  grows, 

Or  'neath  the  mountain's  crest 
Where  limpid  streams  o'er  their  rocky  beds 

Dance  on  and  never  rest? 
Where  the  cloud-cap  throws  its  silvery  veil, 

And  the  sunset's  lingering  beam 
Kisses  its  top  with  a  crimson  glow, 

And  the  purple  evening's  gleam  — 
Is  there  the  soldier's  home  ? 

On  the  Old  Dominion's  blood-washed  soil, 

Where  every  hill  and  dale 
Is  tuneful  of  the  sacred  past 

As  Tempe's  classic  vale ; 
Where  Freedom's  mightiest  throes  were  felt, 

Where  Freedom  bowed  her  head  — 
Her  mailed  hand  on  her  breaking  heart, 

In  anguish  o'er  her  dead — 

Not  there  has  he  a  home. 

On  the  fertile  prairies  of  the  West, 

Where  the  kind  and  generous  soil 
To  the  farmer  yields  a  rich  reward 

For  all  his  care  and  toil  ; 
Where  the  emigrant's  rustic  cottage  stands, 

And  the  tall  grass,  wild  and  free, 
Rises  and  falls  as  the  breeze  sweeps  o'er 

Like  the  billows  of  the  sea — 

Not  there  is  the  soldier's  home  I 

For  over  them  all  the  ruthless  foe 

Like  locusts  dark  have  trod, 
The  fields  laid  waste,  the  roof-trees  dear 

Have  levelled  with  the  sod  : 
The  chimneys  bare,  the  blackened  walls, 

The  ruined  hearthstones  there  — 
The  silent  cottages  around, 

Like  crumbling  tombs,  show  where 
The  soldier  had  a  home  I 


SALLIE    A.    BROCK.  791 

In  the  tented  field,  'mid  the  cannon's  roar 

And  the  musket's  rattling  sound, 
Where  the  drum's  long  roll  and  the  bugle  note 

And  the  clash  of  arms  resound — 
Where  foe  to  foe  in  human  strife 

And  deadly  conflict  meet, 
With  the  hissing  ball  and  the  bayonet  thrust 

And  the  dead  around  his  feet — 

Till  late,  that  was  his  home. 

But  other  homes  has  the  soldier  brave, 

From  the  battle's  dim  array : 
In  the  loving  hearts  of  the  good  and  true, 

The  gentle  and  the  gay, 
There  is  a  sacred  corner  kept, 

Where  an  altar  burns,  refined 
With  the  vestal  flame  of  Heaven's  own  love, 

And  the  soldier  is  enshrined 

Within  this  hallowed  home. 

Where'er  a  mansion  rears  its  head, 

Where  ease  and  plenty  meet, 
At  the  well-filled  board  of  bounteous  store 

The  soldier  has  a  seat. 
In  the  mountain  cot  of  the  humble  poor, 

Or  near  the  swelling  tide, 
The  door  may  be  closed  'gainst  the  wintry  wind, 

But  the  latch-string  is  outside — 

And  there  is  the  soldier's  home ! 

Then,  poor  and  warworn  veteran, 

Oh,  cease  thy  sad  complaint ! 
For  earth  has  always  cheery  spots 

For  the  weary  and  the  faint ; 
And  a  promise  bright  to  you  is  given, 

When  life's  last  day  is  done  — 
When  life's  sad  battles  all  are  fought — 

When  the  last  vict'ry's  won  — 

In  heaven  there  is  a  home ! 


MISS  SUE  C.  HOOPER. 

AQ.UIET  home-existence  up  to  the  close,  or  rather  beginning  of 
the  war  —  for  "quiet"  was  hardly  to  be  found   in  Richmond 
during  the  time  the  "City  on  the  James"  was  capital  of  the  Confed 
erate  States  —  was  that  of  Sue  C.  Hooper. 

Miss  Sue  C.  Hooper's  father,  on  the  death  of  his  wife  and  an  infant 
daughter,  which  occurred  shortly  after  the  second  birthday  of  the  sub 
ject  of  this  article,  discontinued  housekeeping,  and  the  subsequent  life 
of  father  and  daughter  was  spent  as  boarders  in  the  home  of  one  or 
another  of  their  kindred.  Says  the  lady  : 

"  My  earliest  distinct  recollection  is  of  a  character  rather  different,  I  opine, 
from  that  of  most  girls.  I  could  not  have  numbered  more  than  three  or 
four  years,  at  farthest,  when  our  city  had  the  honor  of  a  visit  from  the  Sage 
of  Marshfield.  Keared  in  the  Slashes-of  Hanover,  familiar  with  the  scenes 
of  Clay's  early  life,  and  bred  in  the  same  school  of  politics,  it  was  always  a 
marvel  to  me  that  Harry  of  the  West  was  not  my  father's  favorite  leader. 
But,  no ;  it  was  Webster,  from  the  colder  latitude  and  granite  hills  of  New 
England  Well,  my  father  could  not  permit  so  golden  an  opportunity  of 
his  child's  seeing  his  political  idol  to  pass  unimproved ;  so,  girl,  almost  baby 
as  I  was,  he  hurried  me  down  to  the  honorable  gentleman's  reception  on  the 
portico  of  the  old  Powhatan,  then  a  leading  hotel,  held  me  in  his  arms  above 
the  heads  of  the  populace,  that  in  after  years  I  might  boast  of  having  heard 
Webster,  the  immortal.  My  impressions  of  that  hour  were  a  source  of  infi 
nite  amusement  to  my  father  to  the  day  of  his  death.  Mr.  Webster  was 
welcomed  by  James  Lyons,  Esq.,  a  prominent  member  of  the  Richmond 
Bar,  afterward  a  representative  of  that  district  in  the  Confederate  Congress ; 
and  I,  after  an  impartial  hearing  of  both  speeches,  boldly  avowed  the  opinion 
that  Mr.  Lyons  was  the  greater  orator  of  the  two,  in  my  infantile  judgment. 
It  may  have  been  the  elegance  and  grace  of  our  fellow-citizen,  or  his  sono 
rous,  Ciceronian  periods,  or  perhaps  both  united,  as  compared  with  the  stout, 
portly  figure  and  short,  pithy  sentences  of  the  New-Englander,  as  my  dim, 
shadowy  remembrance  now  paints  him,  which  captivated  my  childish  fancy; 
but  there  was  evidently  something  in  his  manner,  or  appearance,  or  rhetoric, 
which  indelibly  stamped  itself  upon  my  mind,  and  made  Mr.  Lyons,  for  a 
long  period,  my  beau  ideal  of  an  orator." 

792 


SUE    C.    HOOPER.  793 

The  childhood  of  Miss  Hooper  was  passed  with  her  maternal  grand 
mother,  a  woman  of  strong  and  well-cultivated  mind  for  the  ante- 
revolutionary  period.  Politics  was  her  forte.  She  was  never  quite 
so  near  the  climax  of  happiness  as  when  she  could  engage  a  Demo 
crat  in  controversy,  and  overthrow  (as  she  conceived)  some  of  his  pet 
theories,  by  a  womanly  thrust,  or  an  apt  quotation  from  the  Sage  of 
Ashland,  her  paragon  of  statesmanship.  Who  can  aver  that  these  sur 
roundings  had  no  influence  in  shaping  the  habits  of  thought  and  man 
ner  of  writing  of  Miss  Hooper  ? 

Miss  Hooper's  father  made  her,  his  only  one,  a  companion  from 
infancy ;  taught  her  to  read  at  an  early  age,  years  before  she  was  old 
enough  to  go  to  school ;  interested  himself  in  her  childish  pleasures 
and  pursuits.  Mr.  Hooper  was  a  man  of  sound  judgment  and  supe 
rior  practical  sense,  and  was  always  very  ambitious  for  his  daughter. 

In  her  childhood,  authorship  had  been  Miss  Hooper's  hobby ;  but 
emancipated  from  the  restraints  of  the  school-room,  for  several  years 
she  had  no  ambition  beyond  present  enjoyment.  It  is  to  Reviews,  of 
which  department  of  literature  she  is  particularly  fond,  that  Miss 
Hooper  is  indebted  for  most  of  her  knowledge  of  authors,  never  having 
had  access  to  a  library. 

Her  first  article  was  published  in  the  "Religious  Herald,"  Rich 
mond,  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "Adrienne,"  which  she  still  retains. 

Her  first  story  was  published  in  a  literary  weekly  of  Richmond,  and 
was  much  complimented  by  the  editress;  since  which  time  she  has 
contributed  to  Southern  and  Northern  literary  journals.  During  the 
war,  "  Adrienne  "  was  one  of  the  most  prominent  contributors  to  the 
"  Magnolia  Weekly,"  Richmond.  Her  novelettes  were  lacking  in 
vivacity,  and  the  characters  were  similar.  "  Ashes  of  Roses  "  we  con 
sider  her  cleverest  novelette ;  some  of  the  scenes  being  not  only 
lifelike,  but  capitally  delineated.  Her  best  productions  will  shortly 
be  given  to  the  public. 

Shortly  before  the  close  of  the  war,  Mr.  Hooper  died  ;  and  with  the 
downfall  of  the  Confederacy,  her  property  was  all  swept  away ;  and 
single-handed,  this  true  Christian  woman  prepared  to  contend  with  the 
"  cold  charities  of  the  world  in  the  battle  of  life." 

A  Virginian  by  birth,  having  ever  resided  within  the  borders  of  the 
"  mother  of  States,"  Miss  Hooper  is  proud  of  the  "  Old  Dominion," 
and  clings  to  her,  "  desolated,"  as  she  rejoiced  in  her  "  pomp  and  beau 
ty."  She  converses  fluently  and  elegantly.  As  a  correspondent,  Miss 


794  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Hooper  is  to  be  praised ;  her  letters  are  natural  and  interesting,  an 
index  of  the  character  of  the  writer. 

In  the  writings  of  Miss  Hooper,  the  defects  are  those  that  are  inhe 
rent  in  her  nature  and  surroundings.  Having  never  travelled  or 
mingled  in  "  society,"  so  called,  her  novelettes  are  necessarily  plain, 
unvarnished  records  of  home-life  in  the  middle  class  of  society  ;  in 
which,  perhaps,  the  religious  element  predominates  too  strongly  for  the 
mass  of  readers.  We  think  Miss  Hooper  has  erred  in  too  little  follow 
ing  Longfellow's  suggestion,  "  to  look  into  her  heart  and  write." 


THE  OCCUPATION  OF  RICHMOND. 

I  do  not  believe  there  ever  was  a  more  panic-stricken  woman  than  I,  the 
first  day,  and,  indeed,  the  first  week  of  the  occupation  of  Richmond  by  the 
Federal  troops ;  but,  upon  present  reflection,  I  admit  that  the  causes  for 
alarm  existed  more  in  my  imagination  than  in  reality. 

Sunday  was  the  loveliest  of  April  days,  the  morning  as  quiet  as  any 
within  four  years ;  and  worshippers  wended  their  way  to  church  as  peace 
fully  as  if  "  wars  and  rumors  of  wars  "  were  mere  abstractions.  In  the  af 
ternoon,  there  were  whisperings  of  evacuation ;  and,  toward  evening,  elon 
gated  visages,  the  constant  whistle  of  locomotives,  and  fugitive  inhabitants, 
betokened  some  unusual  commotion ;  but  I  remembered  the  gun-boat  panic 
in  '62,  and  persistently  refused  to  credit  the  evidence  of  my  senses.  Such 
was  my  confidence  in  the  success  of  our  cause,  that  it  was  not  until  eleven 
o'clock  that  night,  when  it  was  positively  asserted  that  our  pickets  were  to 
be  withdrawn  two  hours  thereafter,  that  I  began  to  realize  the  situation. 
That  slumber  visited  not  my  eyes  you  will  readily  believe;  but  it  is  too 
much  for  your  credulity  to  believe  that  hope  was  still  inspired  by  my  reflec 
tions  upon  the  numerous  miraculous  interpositions  of  Providence  in  behalf 
of  God's  chosen  people  in  ancient  times,  particularly  the  deliverance  of 
Hezekiah  from  the  hosts  of  Sennacherib;  and  I  fondly  dreamed,  even  then, 
that  the  enemy  would  never  be  permitted  to  enter  our  "beautiful,  seven- 
hilled  city."  This  delusion  was  dispelled  about  dawn  by  an  explosion  which 
shook  the  house  to  its  very  foundation,  and  I  sprang  up,  exclaiming  to  my 

room-mate,  "  Oh,  L ,  the  Yankees  are  shelling  us  !  "  and  shortly  after, 

there  was  another  report  more  terrific  still,  which  fully  convinced  me  that 
the  enemy  had  opened  a  bombardment.  These  reports  we  soon  ascertained 
to  be  from  the  destruction  of  the  "  Patrick  Henry,"  at  the  Rockets,  and  the 
powder  magazine,  almost  in  our  immediate  vicinity ;  and  were  but  the  be 
ginning  of  the  explosions,  which  were  continued  throughout  the  morning  at 


SUE    C.    HOOPER.  795 

the  armory  and  the  arsenal.  About  sunrise,  the  mob,  who  had  been  sacking 
the  stores  all  night,  completed  their  work  by  firing  the  houses  they  had  rifled. 
The  brooding  wing  of  the  destroying  angel  seemed  to  hover  over  us  in  the 
dense  clouds  of  smoke  which  obscured  the  sun,  and  made  almost  a  twilight 
darkness  at  midday.  The  fire  raged  furiously  all  day,  and  by  night  at 
least  one-half  of  the  business  portion  of  the  city  was  in  ashes. 

About  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  in  the  midst  of  the  consternation 
about  the  conflagration,  there  was  a  general  stampede  of  the  pillagers  from 
"  down  town,"  fleeing  before  the  enemy.  As  everything  was  remarkably 
quiet,  except  in  the  burning  district,  and  I  expected  they  would  enter  with 
"  a  great  flourish  of  trumpets,"  I  pronounced  it  all  a  hoax,  until  one  of  our 
neighbors  assured  me  "  he  had  seen  the  Yankees  on  the  Square."  My  first 
view  of  them  was  about  ten  o'clock,  when  two  regiments  of  fine-looking, 
soldierly  fellows,  whom,  but  for  their  splendid  uniforms,  I  might  have 
imagined  some  of  our  own  brave  boys,  advanced  up  the  street  with  a  firm, 
steady  tread,  and  a  dignified,  martial  air.  I  confess,  until  then,  anxiety  for 
my  personal  safety  had  absorbed  every  other  feeling ;  but  when  I  descried 
through  the  closed  blinds  the  "  stars  and  stripes  "  waving  in  the  Confeder 
ate  capital,  I  burst  into  tears. 

The  first  freshet  of  my  grief  having  subsided,  I  became  tolerably  com 
posed  ;  but,  in  the  afternoon,  was  again  precipitated  into  a  panic  by  the  ap 
proach  of  a  colored  brigade,  who  rushed  pellmell  past  our  residence,  sing 
ing,  shouting,  yelling,  firing,  the  white  officers  not  even  endeavoring  to  re 
strain  them.  We  anticipated  such  scenes  that  night  as  marked  the  occupa 
tion  of  Columbia,  S.  C. ;  and  as  these  black  fiends  were  encamped  only  two 
squares  beyond  us,  we  apprehended  danger  to  our  neighborhood  from  their 
proximity.  However,  everything  passed  off  quietly,  and  we  scarcely  heard 
a  footfall  on  the  street  after  nightfall. 

"  Our  friends,  the  enemy,"  (to  quote  the  polite  language  of  the  late  Mr. 
Daniel,  of  the  "  Examiner,"  who  fortunately  died  the  week  before  the  evac 
uation,)  have  preserved  very  good  order  ever  since  their  occupation.  There 
have  been  some  irregularities  and  depredations  in  the  vicinity  of  the  camps, 
particularly  before  the  removal  of  the  negro  troops ;  but,  as  far  as  possible, 
they  have  been  promptly  punished.  Indeed,  ma  chere,  I  thought  I  never 
knew  what  gratitude  was  until  the  first  week  of  the  Federal  rule  here :  every 
hour  we  were  protected  from  violence  seemed  a  miracle  of  grace.  The 
authorities  and  the  soldiery,  in  the  main,  have  pursued  a  conciliatory  course 
toward  our  citizens,  and  have  carefully  refrained  from  any  exultation  over  a 
fallen  foe.  At  church  they  are  exceedingly  respectful  and  devotional ;  they 
have  been  particularly  courteous  to  ladies ;  don't  even  glance  at  us  in  the 
street,  except  to  move  aside  to  allow  us  to  pass 

An  amusing  incident  occurred  not  long  since  on  Franklin  Street,  the 
fashionable  promenade  of  the  city.  A  belle,  in  meeting  a  Federal  officer, 
doubled  her  veil ;  but  just  as  he  passed,  a  gust  of  wind  drifted  it  at  his  feet. 


796  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

He  picked  it  up  and  presented  it  very  gallantly,  meanwhile  concealing  his 
face  with  his  hat — a  suitable  reproof  for  her  silly  affectation. 

Another  incident,  more  interesting  still,  as  showing  the  temper  of  the 
people:  Last  week,  several  young  ladies,  at  the  passport  office,  while  await 
ing  their  passports,  entered  into  a  cheerful  conversation,  but  carefully  ab 
staining  from  any  allusion  to  the  Yankees  or  the  state  of  the  country.  An 
officer  in  the  crowd  appeared  interested  in  their  discourse,  and  presently 
made  a  casual  inquiry.  He  was  answered  civilly,  but  coldly ;  but,  not  re 
garding  his  repulse,  he  pursued  his  interrogatories  on  indifferent  topics. 
Finding  he  could  elicit  no  reference  to  politics  or  the  war,  he  pertly  asked  : 
"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  the  success  of  your  Confederacy  now  ?  "  "  Sir," 
replied  one  of  the  girls,  "  with  God  nothing  is  impossible ;  and  I  believe 
with  his  assistance  we  shall  yet  achieve  our  independence ;  for  we  are  as 
sured  that  '  whom  the  Lord  loveth  He  chasteneth.' "  Her  questioner, 
crest-fallen  and  abashed,  hung  his  head,  and  was  soon  lost  in  the  crowd. 

We  are  allowed  considerable  latitude  of  speech,  of  which  we  are  not 
slow  to  avail  ourselves.  Treasonable  utterances  are  not  tolerated  in  the  pul 
pit;  but  some  of  our  ministers,  even  in  conversation  with  the  Federals,  "  use 
great  plainness  of  speech,"  with  perfect  impunity 

On  the  29th  of  April,  an  order  was  promulgated  by  General  Halleck,  to 
take  effect  on  the  1st  of  May,  that  no  minister  would  be  allowed  to  perform 
a  marriage  ceremony  without  having  taken  the  oath,  and  the  parties  con 
tracting  marriage  should  also  be  required  to  take  the  oath.  Two  of  our 
wealthy  young  ladies  of  the  beau  monde  were  engaged  to  be  married  to  a 
pair  of  North  Carolina  officers  the  first  week  in  May ;  but,  upon  the  appear 
ance  of  this  order,  the  parties  "out-heroded  Herod,"  by  being  united  in 
Hymen's  silken  tie  on  Sunday  morning,  April  30th  —  Kev.  Dr.  Burrows,  of 
the  First  Baptist  Church,  officiating.  It  is  said  there  were  at  least  fifty 
marriages  in  Richmond  that  day. 


MATILDA  S.  EDWARDS. 

MATILDA  CAROLINE  SMILEY  was  the  youngest  of  twelve 
children :  six  sons  and  six  daughters  made  the  old  homestead  a 
very  bright  and  happy  place. 

Matilda  was  left  pretty  much  to  her  own  inclinations  in  childhood, 
and  spent  many  hours  wandering  through  the  woods  around  Grape 
Hill,  (Nelson  County,  Virginia,)  gathering  flowers,  and  listening  to 
the  birds  and  the  rippling  of  the  bright  waters  that  sparkled  in  the 
sunshine.  It  was  a  happy  childhood,  full  of  bright,  sweet  memories. 
She  wrote  a  great  deal;  and  her  compositions,  although  hidden  away, 
as  she  thought,  securely,  were  often  found  by  her  sisters,  who  made 
them  subjects  of  amusement,  to  her  great  mortification.  One  day,  the 
presiding  elder  of  the  Virginia  Conference,  Rev.  George  W.  Nalley, 
was  stopping  at  the  "homestead,"  and  her  sister  found  her  blank  book 
and  showed  it  to  him.  The  gentleman  saw  much  good  in  these  juve 
nile  productions,  and  took  them  with  him,  reading  them  to  his  friends, 
and  some  of  the  poems  appeared  in  the  "Richmond  Advocate,"  then 
edited  by  Rev.  S.  M.  Lee.  Not  long  afterward,  Mr.  Nalley  and  Bishop 
Dogget  selected  poems  from  the  MSS.  book,  and  a  volume  was  pub 
lished. 

About  that  time,  Mr.  Nalley  persuaded  Mrs.  Smiley  to  send  Matilda 
to  the  Rockingham  Institute,  presided  over  by  that  good  man  and 
eminent  educator,  Rev.  John  C.  Blackwell ;  a  portion  of  the  proceeds 
of  the  book  of  poems  was  used  to  defray  some  of  the  expenses  of  her 
schooling.  She  spent  nearly  three  years  at  the  Institute. 

One  by  one  her  sisters  left  home  as  brides,  until  the  youngest  only 
was  left.  She  kept  up  her  studies  and  writings,  publishing  her  arti 
cles  in  the  "  Louisville  Journal,"  "  The  Home  Circle,"  and  various 
other  Southern  journals. 

Just  before  the  war,  she  married  Rev.  A.  S.  Edwards,  son  of  Gene 
ral  S.  M.  Edwards,  of  Washington  City.  Mr.  Edwards  was  in  the 
Treasury  Department  of  the  United  States  Government,  with  a  com 
fortable  home  and  good  salary.  When  war  came,  he  immediately 
resigned  his  position,  and  came  South  to  share  the  lot  of  the  people  of 

797 


798  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

his  own  section.  He  was  in  the  employment  of  the  Confederate  gov 
ernment  at  Richmond  for  four  years. 

Life  in  Richmond  was  one  of  few  pleasures  and  many  privations  to 
any,  unless  they  had  many  "blue-backed  promises  to  pay."  Mrs. 
Edwards,  used  to  the  free  and  open-hearted  hospitality  of  the  country, 
with  the  pure  air  and  green  woods,  suffered  many  privations  —  one 
month  staying  in  the  house  of  a  rich  acquaintance,  who  let  rooms 
cheaper  to  them  on  score  of  friendship;  another  month  in  a  damp 
basement  room ;  and  another  in  the  third  story  of  one  of  the  Richmond 
hotels,  then  used  as  a  hospital  —  living  on  pork,  beans,  and  rye  coffee, 
without  sugar.  And  so  life  went  by  from  year  to  year,  until  the  Con 
federacy  ended,  and  the  drama  closed  with  the  fall  and  burning  of 
Richmond. 

After  the  fall  of  the  Confederacy,  Mrs.  Edwards  went  back  to  her 
childhood's  home,  "Grape  Hill,"  and  opened  a  female  school;  but  the 
country  was  so  poor  that  it  did  not  succeed,  and  the  school  was  closed. 

Mrs.  Edwards  has  little  time  for  writing,  surrounded  by  a  family 
of  small  children ;  and  like  all  Southern  women,  she  has  many  small 
cares  upon  her  hands.  She  anticipates  publishing  a  poem  this  fall. 

William  Archer  Cocke,  Esq.,  the  author  of  "Constitutional  History 
of  the  United  States,"  a  work  which  attracted  considerable  attention, 
enriching  our  literature,  and  placing  the  author  high  upon  the  list  of 
Southern  authors,  in  "Sketches  of  Southern  Literature,"  published  in 
1863,  notices  the  volume  of  poems  of  Matilda  "  as  an  agreeable  vol 
ume  of  minor  poems,  which  has  much  of  womanly  tenderness  and  deli 
cate  sweetness." 


MARY   J.  S.  UPSHUR. 

MISS  UPSHUR,  well  known  under  her  pseudonym  of  "  Fanny 
Fielding,"  has  written  for  nearly  every  literary  journal  of  the 
South,  prose  and  poetry,  from  the  "  Southern  Literary  Messenger  "  to 
the  "  Richmond  Pastime."  She  is  one  of  the  few  writers  who  enter 
tain  the  strictest  ideas  of  the  responsibility  of  writers  for  the  press,  in 
any  capacity  whatever;  aiming  to  be  useful  in  her  sphere  —  "to  leave 
no  line  which,  dying,  she  would  wish  to  blot." 

Miss  Upshur's  birthplace  is  in  Accomac  County,  Virginia,  on  the 
wave-washed  Eastern  Shore,  where,  almost  literally,  the  Atlantic  bil 
lows  rocked  her  cradle,  and  the  ocean  waves  sung  lullaby.  She  was 
removed  from  here  in  childhood,  and  now  resides  in  Norfolk.  She  is 
a  daughter  of  William  Stith  Upshur,  (at  one  time  a  lawyer  of  the 
Accomac  Bar,  a  contemporary  of  the  Hons.  H.  A.  Wise  and  Thomas 
H.  Bayly,)  and  a  niece  of  Judge  Abel  P.  Upshur,  who  was  Secretary 
of  State  during  President  Tyler's  Administration. 

Miss  Upshur  has  an  inherent  fondness  for  books — could  read  "hand 
somely,"  it  has  been  remarked,  at  four  years  old.  Though,  when  a 
child,  devoted  to  play,  she  would  frequently  indulge  in  seasons  of 
retirement  in  a  dimly-lighted  closet,  poring  over  "Pilgrim's  Progress," 
and  other  books  of  a  serious  character.  Much  of  her  childhood  was 
spent  in  lonely,  old  country-houses,  with  little  company  and  many 
books. 

She  commenced  writing  for  the  press  at  an  early  age.  Her  ambi 
tion  was  to  be  identified  with  the  "literature  of  the  South."  Her  first 
story,  of  any  length,  was  a  novelette,  entitled  "  Florine  de  Genlis," 
and  appeared  in  a  Norfolk  paper.  Miss  Upshur  has  written  generally 
over  the  signature  of  "  Fanny  Fielding ; "  but  sometimes  over  other 
assumed  names,  and  frequently  without  any  nom  de  plume. 

Like  Miss  Evans,  the  author  of  "  Beulah,"  etc.,  Miss  Upshur  was 
educated  entirely  at  home ;  the  difference  being  that  the  former  was 
educated  by  her  mother,  while  the  latter  lost  her  mother  early,  had 
no  elder  sister,  and  was  the  feminine  head  of  the  family  from  her  very 
juvenile  years,  and  was  educated  principally  by  her  father. 

799 


800  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Miss  Upshur's  most  ambitious  prose  work,  that  has  been  published, 
appeared  in  the  "Hume  Monthly,"  Nashville,  1867,  entitled  "Confnl- 
erate  Notes,"  the  "  prefatory  "  to  which  was  in  the  following  strain  : 

"  Yes,  despite  whatever  odium  may  attach  to  the  term,  thus  is  baptized 
this  desultory  record,  which,  written  out  from  an  irregular  journal  of  the 
late  war  time,  and  immediately  antecedent  period,  seems  not  thus  misnamed. 

"Those  blue-backed  'promises  to  pay'  are  significant  of  a  grander  venture 
and  a  nobler  hope  than  mines  of  gold  can  express;  and  exalted  in  such  a—D 
elation,  wo  brave  the  pronunciamento  'below  par,' only  wishing  the  new 
namesake  merited,  equally  with  its  original,  exemption  therefrom. 

"Critics  of  a  different  turn  of  mind  may  vote  these  'Notes'  discordant, 
and  assign  them  one  characteristic  in  common  with  those  of  the  dying 
swan,  whose  'last 'are  traditionally  'best.'  Humoring  the  metaphor,  we 
feel  that  not  a  few  are  left,  yet,  upon  whose  ear  the  sound  will  fall  like  a  bar 
of  some  old,  familiar  strain  in  music,  and  to  whom,  though  the  original 
melody  has  died  out  in  air,  each  echo  is  a  memory  of  the  sweetest  song  that 
was  ever  sung  in  vain." 

"  Confederate  Notes,"  said  a  critic  noted  for  his  fairness  and  clear 
ness  of  thought,  "is  a  work  of  great  power  and  deep,  earnest  thought. 
The  style  is  terse,  graphic,  and  idiomatic.  This  work  will  place  the 
writer  indisputably  among  the  leading  writers  of  the  South." 

The  "Richmond  Whig  "said:  "Confederate  Notes,"  (it  was  pub 
lished  anonymously,)  "  in  a  strictly  literary  sense,  and  apart  from  any 
sectional  or  political  significance  contained  in  its  title,  is  destined,  we 
believe,  to  make  its  mark  upon  the  comparatively  fallow  field  of  what 
is  called  Southern  authorship." 

The  following  extract  from  a  letter  from  Miss  Upshur  is  a  picture 
of  her  every-day  life,  showing  she  is  no  bas  bleu,  in  the  popular  accep 
tation  of  the  term : 

"  A  just  report  of  my  literary  career  could,  I  feel,  scarcely  be  made  with 
out  some  allusion  to  the  peculiar  circumstances  preventing  that  entire  aban 
don  to  study  and  contemplation  almost  necessary  to  insure  high  excellence 
in  one  who  designs  making  authorship  a  profession." 

Of  the  poem  "  Margaret,"  given  hereafter,  she  writes : 

"  I  perhaps  should  tell  you  that  it  was  written,  as  so  many  of  my  efforts 
were,  disjointed — that  is,  at  odd  times,  when  I  was  busy  with  other  matters, 
and  yet  felt  'a  call,' as  the  Quakers 'says,  'to  write.'  I  kept  pencil  and 
paper  in  my  work-basket,  and  jotted  down  a  verse  at  intervals  while  engaged 
with  a  pressing  job  of  sewing. 


MARY    J.    S.    UPS  HUE.  801 

"  Well,  I  fancy  I  see  certain  household  achievements  interrupting,"  writes 
she,  "gleaming  here  and  there  through  breaks  —  very  plain  to  me,  in  most 
things  I  have  accomplished;  pots  of  jam  perceptible  between  stanzas  of 
poems;  seams  of  sheets,  of  carpets,  disjointing  the  general  narrative  and 
final  catastrophe  of  some  heroic  tale.  I  do  not  sigh  for  more  poetic  sur 
roundings,  or  that  my  lot  is  as  it  is.  There  is  no  poetry  without  beauty,  and 
use  is  beauty.  A  woman  can  have  no  higher  appointment,  I  hold,  than  the 
keeper  of  a  home.  Her  first  duty  is  here :  if  she  can  shine  abroad  after  this, 
all  well ;  but  this  God  intended  as  the  centre  of  her  warmth  and  light.  So  I 
believe." 

The  following  poem  was  extensively  copied  by  the  newspapers 
throughout  the  country.  The  "  Norfolk  Herald  "  thus  prefaces  it : 

"  We  take  much  pleasure  in  transferring  the  following  beautiful  stanzas 
from  the  pages  of  the  'Southern  Literary  Messenger,'  for  April,  (1859.) 
They  are  the  production,  it  seems,  of  one  of  the  most  gifted  of  the  young 
ladies  of  Virginia,  and  one  who  should  rank  higher  than  many  whose  names 
have  become  famous.  .  .  .  We  commend  them  to  the  lovers  of  the  beau 
tiful  ;  for  they  will  find,  under  their  simple  style,  exquisite  figures,  conceived 
in  the  very  spirit  of  poesy's  self." 

MAEGAKET. 

Oh !  Margaret,  pretty  Margaret  I 

I  pray  ye  linger  yet 
At  the  stile  beyond  the  hay-field, 

When  the  summer  sun  is  set; 
And  I'll  tell  ye  in  the  twilight 

What  ye  never  shall  forget. 

Oh !  Margaret,  sweet  Margaret  1 

With  face  so  lily  fair, 
The  sunbeams  loved  to  nestle 

In  the  meshes  of  her  hair, 
And  gleam  and  gleam  more  golden 

From  the  light  they  borrowed  there. 

Oh  !  Margaret,  sweet  Margaret ! 

With  eyes  of  violet  blue ; 
Or,  when  she  looked  most  lovingly, 

Of  that  celestial  hue 
The  heavens  show  when  cloud-gates  ope 

To  let  the  good  pass  through. 
19 


802  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Oh !  Margaret,  merry  Margaret ! 

Beyond  the  meadow  mill, 
My  heart  will  listen,  listen 

For  your  gentle  tripping  still ; 
All  its  pit-pat  echoes  waking, 

As  of  old,  at  your  sweet  will. 

But  Margaret,  sweet  Margaret  1 

Ye '11  never  come  again, 
Like  the  spring-time  after  winter, 

Like  the  sunshine  after  rain ; 
But  I  could  kiss  the  blessed  dust 

Where  your  sweet  form  hath  lain. 

But  Margaret,  sainted  Margaret ! 

The  hay-field  and  the  mill, 
The  meadow-path,  its  windings, 

And  its  little  running  rill, 
Will  speak  more  lovingly  of  you 

Than  the  grave-yard,  all  so  still. 

And  Margaret,  blessed  Margaret ! 

In  my  heart's  love-lacking  dearth, 
I  '11  look  upon  the  sunshine, 

And  the  flowers  that  strew  the  earth, 
And  I  '11  think  I  see  in  each  of  them 

The  types  of  your  new  birth. 

Then  Margaret,  sweet  Margaret! 

Like  sunshine  after  rain, 
Like  summer  after  winter, 

Ye  will  glad  my  heart  again ; 
For  I  '11  say  they  are  your  messengers, 

And  they  shall  not  speak  in  vain. 

The  following  extracts  from  a  letter  from  Miss  Upshur  tell  their 
own  tale : 

"  I  suppose  the  multiform  character  of  my  occupations  is  much  the  same 
in  degree,  and  somewhat  in  kind,  with  that  of  many  other  Southern  women 
now  who  are  writers.  The  thing  has  its  comical  side ;  a  kneeling  hero,  for 
instance,  just  about  to  make  a  touching  declaration  to  his  adored  Daphne, 
or  Sarah,  as  the  case  may  be,  is  interrupted  by  an  '  aside,'  which  reminds, 
may  be,  that  your  latest  '  Bureau '  pet  has  gone  to  S'ciety  meeting,  and  you 
must  go  and  loaf  your  bread." 


MAEY    J.    S.    UPS  HUE.  803 

Miss  Upshur  has  recently  completed,  and  expects  to  publish  shortly, 
a  novel,  entitled  "  Mabbit  Thorn ; "  and  "  Confederate  Notes  "  will 
also  probably  appear  in  book-form. 


OUR  UNION. 

Now  give  our  voices  to  the  breeze  —  our  banner  to  the  sky; 

Let  stars  to  kindred  stars  bear  up  our  orisons  on  high. 

God  save  our  sacred  Union  !  the  gift  our  fathers  gave, 

For  which  they  fought  and  bled,  and  fell  in  many  a  hero-grave ! 

No  North  —  no  South  —  no  East  —  no  West  the  war-cry  leading  on, 
When  blood  flowed  red  at  Mecklenburg,  and  Trenton's  field  was  won ; 
No  North  —  no  South  —  no  East — no  West  when  Monmouth's  deadly  plain 
Glowed  in  its  tide  of  British  blood  and  piled  its  hosts  of  slain. 

No  sectionalist  claimed  to  know  who  dealt  the  deadly  blows 
That  purchased  life  for  Liberty,  and  felled  her  tyrant  foes  : 
Here  on  the  heights  of  old  Yorktown,  and  there  on  Bunker  Hill, 
The  patriot  heart  and  sturdy  arm  and  iron  nerve  and  will 

Battled  before  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  the  God  of  land  and  sea, 
Whose  fiery  pillar  led  them  to  the  promised  land  —  the  free : 
The  British  lion  bowed  his  head  and  crouched  him  in  his  lair 
When  proud  Columbia's  eagle  soared  and  cleft  the  echoing  air. 

And  as  our  banner's  starry  folds  floated  toward  the  sky, 
A  band  of  brothers  rallied  round  and  sent  their  shouts  on  high: 
From  far  New  England's  granite  hills  and  ocean-girdled  main 
The  glorious  shout  of  LIBERTY  !  rang  out  again  —  again 

Rang  out,  and  louder,  prouder  swelled,  where  Southern  sons  and  daughters 
Sent  simultaneously  the  shout  over  our  hills  and  waters  ! 
Should  not  the  sons  of  sires  like  these,  the  offspring  of  such  mothers, 
Go  hand  in  hand  —  one  heart  —  one  hope  —  a  loving  band  of  brothers  ? 

Our  own  beloved,  sunny  South  —  our  glorious  Old  Dominion  — 
Shall  our  proud  eagle  bow  his  head  or  droop  one  waving  pinion  ? 
Say,  stalwart  brothers  of  the  North,  shall  party-strife  divide  us? 
Our  foes  they  of  our  own  household  —  our  enemies  beside  us  ? 


804  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Now  shall  we  cope  as  foe  with  foe,  or  as  with  brother,  brother  ? 
"  Bear  and  forbear  "  the  charmed  device  till  we  forget  all  other? 
The  passing  breeze  the  watchword  waft  from  icy  Northern  land 
To  where  our  groves  and  flowery  plains  by  tropic  breath  is  fanned ! 

The  sable  sons  of  Afric's  soil,  in  mercy  let  them  rest 

Where  God  has  placed  their  lowly  lot  as  seemed  unto  him  best; 

In  mercy  more  to  them  than  us,  fanatic  zeal,  be  mute ; 

Do  ye  not  mind  who  proffered  once  the  God-forbidden  fruit? 

And  in  their  garden  of  content,  say,  will  ye  wildly  fling 
Apples  of  discord  ?    Stay  your  hand !  it  were  a  wanton  thing 
To  stir  within  a  human  breast  thought  of  what  must  not  be, 
By  all  the  laws  of  God  to  them  —  by  all  His  laws  to  thee. 

Perhaps  in  ignorance  ye  've  erred :  the  human  heart  is  prone 

To  cloud  the  simple  laws  of  God  with  doctrines  of  its  own  ; 

No  North  nor  South  may  say,  "  'T  is  thine !  "  the  world-wide  weakness, 

where 
Each  day  brings  hourly  proof  how  much  all  need  the  Father's  care. 

Perhaps  in  ignorance  ye  've  erred  :  yet  better  thought  may  come 
By  minding  meek-eyed  Charity,  whose  work  "  begins  at  home ;  " 
And  sweeping  one's  own  threshold  clean,  is  better  than  all  other 
Cunning  device  to  keep  intact  the  door-stone  of  a  brother.* 

Your  Sewards,  Beechers,  Phillipses,  who  rank  and  rave  of  freedom, 

And,  deadly  as  the  curse  that  fell  upon  the  olden  Edom, 

Their  blasphemous  anathemas  pour  out  upon  the  land 

Where  men  dare  differ  with  themselves  and  boldly  take  their  stand. 

Who  made  them  judges  over  us  ?  spokesmen  for  liberty  ? 
A  serious  farce  —  the  sable-skinned,  but  not  the  white  man,  free ! 
Oh !  subtle  casuists,  who  preach  of  "  fire  and  point  of  sword," 
A  fearful  freedom  that  which  bids  defiance  to  the  Lord ! 

Dark  household  enemies !    Oh !  tell  what  in  exchange  they  proffer 
For  the  blest  boon  they  take  away?  —  what  compensation  offer 
For  the  rent  flag  —  dissevered  ties  ?    The  murderous  brand  of  Cain  — 
The  violated  memories  —  brother  by  brother  slain  ! 

*  The  answer  of  the  ancient  Egyptian  to  the  stranger,  who  asked  how  it  was  the  cities 
of  his  nation  were  so  cleanly  kept,  is  full  of  significance,  even  to  this  day :  "  Each  man 
sweeps  before  his  own  door,"  said  the  compatriot  of  the  Pharaohs. 


MAEY    J.    S.    UPS  HUB.  805 

Say,  was  it  not  a  sound  to  make  Satan  himself  seem  merry  — 
The  fratricidal  shout  that  shook  the  hills  of  Harper's  Ferry  ? 
Yet  thanks  to  our  wise  Governor,  under  an  all-wise  God, 
Sedition,  strife  were  soon  laid  low  with  traitors  'neath  the  sod. 

Did  not  the  shades  of  those  whose  bones  bleach  upon  Bunker  Hill 
Utter  their  fearful  whisperings,  when  all  beside  grew  still, 
Upon  the  ear  of  traitor  Brown,  crying,  "  Unclean !  unclean ! 
Worse  than  the  leprosy  of  old  your  deadly  stain  hath  been  ! " 

Ah !  there  are  hearts  of  South  and  North  will  rally  with  us  here, 
Resolved  above  our  grievances  to  shed  the  mutual  tear ; 
With  honorable  burial  to  consign  them  to.  the  grave, 
And  hoist  above  the  starry  flag,  in  triumph  yet  to  wave. 


MARTHA  HAINES  BUTT  BENNETT, 

THE  author  of  "Leisure  Moments,"  published  by  E.  D.  Long  & 
Co.,  New  York,  several  years  ago,  (1859,)  was  born  in  Norfolk, 
Virginia.     A  distinguished  clergyman  said : 

"While  the  literary  execution  of  'Leisure  Moments'  is  of  a  high,  if  not 
of  the  very  highest  order,  the  purity  of  thought,  the  felicity  of  the  imagery, 
and  the  constructive  talent  displayed  in  the  management  of  the  longer 
pieces,  are  as  remarkable  as  they  are  rare.  I  can  hardly  deem  it  possible 
that  these  charming  sketches  are  the  production  of  a  lady  but  just  stepping 
on  the  threshold  of  womanhood,  so  intimate  an  acquaintance  does  the  fair 
author  display  with  all 

'  Thoughts,  all  passions,  all  desires, 
All  that  can  move  this  mortal  frame.' 

It  is  difficult  to  say  which  is  the  writer's  happiest  vein.     She  is  alike  admi 
rable,  whether  she  essays  to  strike  the  keynote  of  joy  or  grief." 

Mrs.  Bennett  is  descended  on  her  father's  side,  whom  she  much 
resembles,  from  the  English ;  and  on  her  mother's  side,  from  the 
French.  She  is  an  only  chijd. 

She  was  educated  at  Ellicott's  Mills,  near  Baltimore,  and  received 
her  diploma  there,  and  was  presented  with  a  gold  medal  and  the 
degree  of  A.  M.  by  the  Harrisburg  Female  College. 

Miss  Butt's  first  appearance  in  print  was  at  the  age  of  fourteen, 
although  she  had  written  for  several  years  before  that  time.  She 
loves  the  "beautiful  and  true."  She  is  inclined  to  be  rather  satirical  — 
very  strong  in  her  attachments. 

Says  a  friend  of  the  lady : 

"She  is  possessed  of  a  fine  person,  indeed  exceedingly  handsome;  her 
arm  and  hand  were  copied  as  a  model  by  the  artist  Barber,  of  Virginia,  for 
the  statue  of  the  '  Fisher  Girl.'  She  understands  well  the  art  of  conversing, 
speaking  with  ease  upon  almost  any  subject.  She  is  sprightly,  poetic,  and 
imaginative,  as  her  writings  indicate." 

Says  a  phrenologist  in  regard  to  this  'lady's  character,  as  viewed 
phrenologically : 

806 


MARTHA    HAINES    BUTT    BENNETT.  807 

"  She  would  be  a  good  observer — large  perceptive  faculties ;  a  good  thinker — 
a  well-developed  forehead ;  and  with  large  mirthfulness,  she  would  be  witty. 
Indeed,  there  is  a  touch  of  the  comic  in  this  intellect;  and  with  her  large 
language  and  excellent  conversational  powers,  she  would  be  most  entertain 
ing.  This  is  the  oratorical  and  musical  temperament,  overflowing  with 
emotion.  There  is  spirit  and  temper  here,  modified,  of  course,  by  benevo 
lence  ;  but  when  such  a  nature  takes  the  defensive,  there  will  be  no  half 
way  work.  She  is  as  plucky  as  she  is  kind  and  loving ;  cautious,  but  not 
timid  or  irresolute ;  self-relying,  but  not  haughty.  She  loves  her  liberty, 
and  will  not  submit  to  restraint ;  but  can  conform  and  adapt  herself  to  cir 
cumstances.  She  may  be  led  or  persuaded,  but  cannot  be  driven.  There  is 
great  hope,  but  less  veneration ;  large  conscientiousness,  but  less  humility. 
She  has  a  good  degree  of  spirituality,  very  large  sublimity,  with  ideality 
well  developed.  There  is  sufficient  acquisitiveness  to  appreciate  property, 
and  sufficient  love  for  the  beautiful  to  incline  her  to  make  a  good  display. 
She  is  both  original  and  imitative. 

"  Had  she  been  trained  for  the  stage,  especially  for  the  opera,  she  would 
have  filled  the  place  with  credit.  Next  to  this,  something  in  the  line  of  lit 
erature  or  authorship  would  be  the  most  appropriate.  But  she  would  love 
and  appreciate  art,  and  could  excel  in  it.  She  would  make  a  good  linguist, 
a  good  reader,  and  could  excel  in  music,  drawing,  and  in  painting.  There 
is  much  character  here ;  and  if  duly  cultivated,  she  could  shine  in  almost 
any  sphere." 

Miss  Butt  was  a  contributor  to  various  periodicals  and  magazines, 
in  the  North  as  well  as  the  South.  Her  volume  of  "Leisure  Moments" 
was  a  collection  of  her  short  tales,  essays,  and  sketches.  One  journal, 
in  a  notice  of  this  volume,  said : 

"  Miss  Butt's  fine  intellectual  capacities  are  well  developed  in  the  book 
which  now  lies  before  us.  It  contains  a  number  of  well-written  sketches,  so 
different  in  style  one  from  another  that  it  is  hardly  possible  to  imagine  they 
were  the  product  of  the  same  pen.  This  only  goes  to  show,  however,  the 
diversity  of  her  talent.  Here  we  find  language  which  not  only  reminds  us 
of  Fanny  Fern,  but  makes  us  take  it  for  one  of  her  happiest  productions. 
Another  chapter  is  dashed  off  in  a  free  and  easy  style,  through  which  bril 
liant  humor  lurks  in  every  sentence.  Then  again  we  find  an  intense  depth 
of  feeling,  which  she  portrays  in  language  that  calls  forth  a  responsive  echo 
from  the  hearts  of  her  readers." 

July  6th,  1865,  Miss  Butt  was  married  to  Mr.  N.  J.  Bennett,  of 
Bridgeport,  Connecticut,  and  they  have  made  their  home  in  the  great 
city  of  New  York. 

In  1866,  Mrs.  Bennett  published,  through  Carleton,  New  York,  a 
volume  of  little  tales  for  children,  under  the  title  of  "  Pastimes  with 
my  Little  Friends." 


MISS  SARAH  J.  C.  WHITTLESEY. 

subject  of  this  sketch,  familiarly  known  to  the  readers  of 
_l_  magazines  and  weekly  journals,  for  which  she  has  contributed 
both  prose  and  verse,  was  born  in  Williamstown,  Martin  County, 
North  Carolina,  came  to  Virginia  in  1848,  and  now  resides  at  Alex 
andria. 

Miss  Whittlesey  commenced  rhyming  at  an  early  age,  and  published 
her  first  article  in  the  "  Edentou  (North  Carolina)  Sentinel,"  in  1846. 
She  published  a  book  of  poems,  entitled  "  Heart  Drops  from  Memory's 
Urn ; "  and  through  M.  W.  Dodd,  New  York,  1860,  a  volume  of  prose 
novelettes,  entitled  "  The  Stranger's  Stratagem ;  or,  The  Double  Deceit ; 
and  other  Stories."  She  received  a  prize  from  a  North  Carolina  paper 
for  a  novelette,  entitled  "  Reginald's  Revenge ; "  also,  from  the  same 
journal,  a  prize  for  a  novelette,  entitled  "The  Hidden  Heart."  She 
again  was  the  successful  competitor  for  a  prize  offered  by  "The 
American  Union,"  of  Boston,  "  The  Maid  of  Myrtle  Vale  "  being  the 
title  of  the  successful  tale. 

In  1866,  the  publishers  in  New  York  of  a  series  of  Dime  Novels 
appropriated  one  of  Miss  Whittlesey's  stories,  "  The  Bug  Oracle,"  and 
published  it  without  her  knowledge  or  consent. 

We  believe  she  has  recently,  or  is  about  to  publish,  a  novel,  entitled 
"  Herbert  Hamilton ;  or,  The  Bas  Bleu."  Her  longest,  and  we  think 
most  successful  novel,  appeared  in  the  "  Field  and  Fireside,"  entitled 
"  Bertha,  the  Beauty." 

808 


HELEN  G.  BEALE, 

THE  author  of  "Lansdowne,"  is  a  young  lady  of  the  "Old  Dominion 
State,"  a  daughter  of  William  C.  Beale,  a  merchant  of  Freder- 
icksburg,  where  she  was  born  and  has  lived  always,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  two  years  spent  in  the  "  Old  North  State,"  after  the  bombard 
ment  of  Fredericksburg  during  the  war.  S^ie  spent  the  day  of  the 
bombardment  in  a  cellar  at  her  home.  Her  father  died  when  she 
was  fourteen  years  of  age.  Her  education  was  conducted  by  Rev.  G. 
"Wilson  McPhail,  now  President  of  Davidson  College,  North  Carolina, 
until  she  was  sixteen,  at  which  time  she  began  the  duties  of  life  as  a 
teacher,  and  has  since  spent  the  largest  portion  of  her  life  in  a  school 
room.  Her  aim  during  these  years  has  been,  and  still  is,  to  perfect 
herself  as  a  teacher.  Being  thus  occupied  all  day,  she  wrote  "  Lans 
downe  "  one  winter,  in  the  evenings,  after  tea,  for  amusement. 

A  lady,  who  has  had  close  association  with  Miss  Beale,  so  as  to 
afford  her  the  best  facilities  for  observing  the  springs  of  thought  and 
action  to  which  we  are  indebted  for  "  Lansdowne,"  her  first  literary 
effort,  writes  to  me : 

"  While  reading  '  Lansdowne/  both  in  MS.  and  print,  I  was  confirmed  in 
my  idea  that  worthy  persons,  who  are  impelled  to  put  their  thoughts  on 
paper,  throw  into  their  creations  their  OAvn  mental  and  spiritual  life,  how 
ever  unconscious  they  may  be  of  producing  any  transcript  of  themselves. 
This  is  seen  in  the  analysis  of  the  two  most  prominent  characters  of  the 
story. 

"  We  all  see,  daily,  persons  resembling  the  other  characters :  their  traits 
may  have  been  personified  from  observations  of  common  life ;  but  these  two 
are  pure  creations  of  the  author's  brain  —  the  hero,  Theodore  Lansdowne, 
loving,  sensitive,  tender,  and  beautiful,  being  the  type  of  the  aesthetic  por 
tion  of  the  writer's  human  emotional  economy  —  an  acknowledgment  of 
homage  to  the  truth  of  the  saying,  '  A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever ; '  while 
Horace  Ashton  is  a  portrayal  of  another  side  of  her  character.  In  him,  we 
find  a  crucifixion  of  self,  in  giving  up  not  only  worldly  ease  and  secular 
ambition,  but  even  love  itself,  held  in  abeyance  to  the  call  of  Divine  truth. 
Here  is  the  culmination,  that  defines  more  faithfully  than  wordy  sketch  of 

809 


810  SOUTHLAND     WRITERS. 

mine  could  give,  the  calibre  of  the  author  of 'Lansdowne  : '  so  does  she  'ful 
fil  her  God-given  heat.' 

"  In  person,  Miss  Beale  is  very  slight,  of  medium  stature,  fine  skin,  bright 
brown  hair,  and  broad,  high  forehead ;  but  the  eye  is  a  mystery  I  have  not 
yet  fathomed,  beautiful,  clear  brown,  calm  almost  to  sadness,  as  the  '  mist 
resembles  the  rain ; '  though  if  she  be  moved  to  mirth,  sunshine  breaks 
through  the  mist,  and  a  most  quick,  nimble  spirit  peeps  out,  full  of  humor, 
which  has  the  gift  of  speech.  This  lady  has  written  a  book  worthy  of  her 
self,  and  which,  like  the  companionship  of  the  author,  makes 

'  The  cares  that  invest  the  day, 

Fold  their  tents  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away.' " 

"Lansdowne"  was  published  serially  in  a  weekly  journal  published 
in  Baltimore  —  "Southern  Society;"  and  as  a  narrative  of  Southern 
society,  it  was  an  ornament  to  the  pages  of  any  journal,  and  particu 
larly  suited  to  the  one  in  which  it  appeared.  Like  many  illy-managed 
Southern  periodicals,  "  Southern  Society  "  existed  for  less  than  a  year. 

Professor  F.  A.  March,  of  Easton,  Pennsylvania,  (a  gentleman  of 
reputation  for  learning,  in  Europe  as  well  as  in  this  country,)  thus 
alludes  to  "  Lansdowne  " :  "  Over  and  above  its  merits  as  a  story,  it  is 
decidedly  worthy  of  the  honor  of  appearing  in  book  form,  on  the  score 
of  its  value  as  a  memorial  of  the  society  which  it  depicts." 


MRS.  CORNELIA  J.  M.  JORDAN. 

subject  of  this  notice  was  born  in  the  ancient  and  romantic 
-L    city  of  Lynchburg,  Virginia,  on  the  llth  of  January,  1830. 

The  maiden  name  of  Mrs.  Jordan  was  Cornelia  Jane  Matthews. 
She  was  the  eldest  of  the  three  daughters  of  Mr.  Edwin  Matthews,  at 
one  time  mayor  of  the  city ;  a  citizen  of  sincerest  worth,  intelligence, 
and  character,  highly  respected  by  the  entire  community,  and  fre 
quently  honored  and  rewarded  with  positions  of  public  responsibility. 
The  wife  of  Mr.  Matthews  was  a  sister  of  the  Hon.  William  L.  Goggin, 
of  Bedford  County,  and  was  a  lady  of  rare  accomplishments,  of  great 
personal  beauty,  and  of  many  marked  traits  of  amiability  and  excel 
lence.  She  died  when  her  eldest  child  was  but  five  years  old.  Her 
husband,  faithful  to  her  memory,  never  married  again ;  but  devoted 
himself  to  the  care  and  training  of  his  children,  and  sustained  toward 
.them,  as  far  as  was  possible,  the  relation  of  father  and  mother  united 
in  one.  The  three  daughters,  after  their  mother's  death,  lived  with 
their  maternal  grandmother  in  Bedford  County,  till  the  youngest  was 
old  enough  to  attend  school,  and  then  they  were  placed  in  charge  of 
the  Sisters  of  Visitation,  Georgetown,  D.  C,  It  was  while  in  George 
town  that  the  first  attempts  of  Miss  Cornelia  to  compose,  in  verse,  in 
accordance  with  the  rules  of  prosody  and  composition,  were  made. 
Heretofore,  she  had  written  "  as  the  spirit  moved  "  —  a  spontaneous 
and  impulsive  utterance.  She  had  sung  as  a  bird,  but  was  now  to 
sing  as  a  trained  and  cultivated  musician.  Her  "  wood-notes  wild," 
which  had  been  merely  soliloquies,  assumed  the  form  of  May-day 
addresses,  verses  to  her  schoolmates,  album  addresses,  etc.  These 
efforts  were  crowned  with  the  grateful  guerdon  of  flattery  and  praise : 
their  author  began  to  be  known  as  the  "  poet  laureate,"  and  was 
always  in  requisition  whenever  anything  metrical  was  needed.  At 
the  commencement  of  1846,  the  highest  prize  in  poetry  and  prose  was 
conferred  upon  her,  amidst  admiring  plaudits.  Perhaps  no  other  evi 
dence  of  triumph  ever  gave  her  half  the  pride  and  pleasure  conveyed 
by  the  simple  and  sincere  assurance  of  her  teacher's  appreciation  and 

her  friends'  approval  and  satisfaction. 

811 


812  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

The  death  of  Emily,  the  youngest  sister,  occurred  at  this  period. 
She  was  only  fourteen  years  of  age ;  but  united  to  great  liveliness  a 
richly  endowed  mind  and  noble  heart,  which  won  the  affection  of  all 
her  companions,  and  the  almost  idolatrous  love  of  her  elder  sister. 
The  fair  unfolding  of  a  flower  so  sweet  and  rare  was  watched  \sith 
almost  maternal  solicitude,  and  the  sudden  blighting  of  the  beautiful 
blossom  inflicted  a  deep  wound,  whose  scar  will  ever  remain  to  witness 
its  cruel  severity.  This  was  the  first  great  sorrow  of  the  poetess.  It 
made  a  profound  impression  on  her  nature,  and  imparted  —  uncon 
sciously,  no  doubt — a  melancholy  character  to  many  of  her  pieces.  It 
was  in  memory  of  her  dead  darling  that  she  dedicated  her  first  book, 
many  years  after,  to  "  The  Fireside  and  the  Grave :  the  Living  and 
Dead  of  a  Broken  Home  Circle."  The  consolation  of  an  assured 
hope  and  the  gracious  promises  of  the  Divine  faith  were  not  wanting. 
But  even  these  could  not  soothe  the  great  sorrow  which  despoiled  so 
early  the  tenderest  emotions  and  aspirations. 

The  two  surviving  daughters  returned,  in  1846,  to  their  grief-stricken 
father.  The  spring  of  1851  found  the  elder  daughter  the  happy  bride 
of  Mr.  Francis  H.  Jordan,  of  Page  County,  a  distinguished  and  accom 
plished  member  of  the  Bar,  and  afterward  commonwealth's  attorney. 
A  beautiful  home  in  the  Valley  of  Virginia  became  now  the  centre  of 
her  affections  and  the  object  of  her  care.  It  was  the  fit  seat  of  the 
Muses,  presenting  a  rare  and  unrivalled  combination  of  mountain  and 
water  scenery.  Various  poems  embalmed  its  beauties,  and  evidenced 
the  happiness  and  tranquil  joy  which  awoke  in  the  married  heart  of 
the  poetess. 

The  early  years  of  Mrs.  Jordan's  married  life  were  spent  in  the  Val 
ley  of  Virginia ;  but  in  the  first  year  of  the  war,  she  was  called  upon 
to  mourn  a  double  loss  —  that  of  her  only  surviving  parent  and  her 
only  child,  both  of  whom  died  in  the  short  space  of  one  year. 

Shortly  before  the  commencement  of  the  war,  Mrs.  Jordan  published 
a  collection  of  her  fugitive  poems,  under  the  title  of  "  Flowers  of  Hope 
and  Memory."  The  book  included  the  poems  which,  from  time  to 
time,  she  had  written,  and  which  had  "  gone  the  rounds  "  of  the  news 
paper  world — waifs  upon  the  sea  of  journalistic  literature.  The  book 
was  brought  out  by  Mr.  A.  Morris,  of  Richmond,  Virginia,  at  a  time 
which  was  sadly  unpropitious ;  for  no  sooner  was  it  issued  than  com 
munication  between  the  sections  was  at  an  end  and  all  the  horrors  of 
war  inaugurated. 


CORNELIA    J.    M.    JORDAN.  813 

About  this  time,  Mrs.  Jordan's  health  became  seriously  impaired, 
and  she  was  debarred  from  writing  by  a  disease  of  the  visional  nerve, 
which  had  previously  threatened  her  with  blindness.  However,  with 
the  assistance  of  an  amanuensis,  she  managed  to  maintain  a  correspond 
ence  with  several  journals.  In  April,  1863,  she  visited  Corinth,  Mis 
sissippi,  where  her  husband  held  a  staff  appointment  under  General 
Beauregard.  It  was  here  that  she  wrote  her  poem,  entitled  "Corinth," 
which,  on  its  publication  after  the  surrender,  was  suppressed  and 
burned  by  order  of  one  General  Terry,  at  that  time  commanding  in 
Richmond.  Mrs.  Jordan  made  this  vandalism  the  subject  of  a  sarcas 
tic  communication  to  one  of  the  newspapers  of  New  York,  and  detailed 
how  her  little,  pamphlet,  entitled  "Corinth,  and  other  Poems,"  of  which 
an  edition  of  about  five  hundred  copies  only  was  printed,  had  been 
seized  by  the  timorous  military  commander  as  dangerous  and  heretical. 
Mrs.  Jordan  had  lost  all  her  possessions  by  the  war,  and  she  had 
hoped,  by  the  sale  of  her  poems,  to  obtain  return  at  least  sufficient  to 
meet  her  pressing  needs,  in  that  moment  of  general  prostration  and 
ruin.  How  her  hopes  were  frustrated  is  shown  in  the  facts  that  have 
just  been  recited. 

During  the  existence  of  the  bazaar  held  in  Richmond  by  the  "Hol 
lywood  Memorial  Association,"  about  two  years  ago,  the  Association 
published  a  poem  of  Mrs.  Jordan's,  entitled  "  Richmond :  Her  Glory 
and  her  Graves,"  the  last  of  any  length  from  her  pen. 

Mrs.  Jordan  has  always  been,  even  from  early  childhood,  a  devotee 
of  the  poetic  impulse.  She  is  of  an  essentially  poetic  temperament. 
She  was  especially  partial  to  the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Hemans ;  and  she 
still  retains  in  her  possession  an  old  volume  of  Mrs.  Hemans's  poetry, 
thumbworn,  faded,  and  much  abused,  which  has  been  her  inseparable 
companion  for  years.  A  little  incident  connected  with  the  childhood 
of  our  poetess,  will  show  how  strongly  her  nature  was  wedded  to  the 
divine  gift  of  poetry,  even  at  a  time  when  the  could  have  but  a  faint 
conception  of  the  poet's  mission.  On  one  occasion,  an  old  phrenolo 
gist —  at  a  time  when  phrenology  was  the  fashion  —  came  to  her 
grandmother's  residence  in  Bedford  County.  Casting  his  eye  around 
for  a  subject,  he  selected  the  little  Cornelia.  Running  his  hand  over 
her  head  in  a  very  knowing  manner,  he  observed,  with  a  smile:  "A 
pretty  hard  head,  to  be  sure ;  but  one  that  will  some  of  these  days 
make  a  poet."  The  child's  heart  throbbed  wildly  at  the  announce 
ment;  and  often,  in  the  years  that  have  since  passed,  has  the  memory 


814  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

of  the  old  man's  words  come  back  to  her  to  give  her  courage  and  con 
fidence. 

Mrs.  Jordan  resides  at  present  in  Lynchburg.  Though  her  fortunes 
are  altered  by  the  war,  and  by  the  result  of  the  unfortunate  invest 
ment  of  a  large  estate  left  by  her  father,  she  still  finds  a  mother's  con 
solation  in  training  and  caring  for  her  only  child,  a  bright  little  girl 
of  six  years  of  age. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  ere  long  Mrs.  Jordan  will  give  to  the  world  a 
volume  containing  all  her  poems,  and  especially  that  entitled  "  Corinth," 
the  published  edition  of  which,  at  the  behest  of  a  backward  civiliza 
tion,  was  so  wantonly  destroyed. 


FALL  SOFTLY,  WINTER  SNOW,  TO-NIGHT. 

Fall  softly,  winter  snow,  to-night, 

Upon  my  baby's  grave, 
Where  withered  violets  faded  lie, 

And  cypress  branches  wave. 
Ye  bright  flakes,  as  ye  touch  the  ground, 
Oh!  kiss  for  me  that  little  mound. 

Beneath  it  lies  a  waxen  form 

Of  boyish  beauty  rare  — 
The  dust  upon  his  eyes  of  blue, 

And  on  his  shining  hair. 
Above  his  little  heart  so  low, 
Fall  gently,  gently,  winter  snow  ! 

We  laid  him  there  when  summer  flowers 
Gave  out  their  fragrant  breath, 

And  pale  white  roses  watched  beside 
That  narrow  bed  of  death. 

One  soft  curl  from  his  sunny  brow 

Is  all  of  him  that 's  left  me  now. 

Ethereal  snow,  fit  mantle  thou 

For  one  so  pure  and  fair; 
Fit  emblem  of  the  spotless  robe 

His  baby  soul  doth  wear : 
As  stormy  night-winds  howl  and  rave, 
Oh !  gently  wrap  his  little  grave. 


CORNELIA     J.    M.    JORDAN.  815 


FLOWERS  FOR  A  WOUNDED  SOLDIER. 

Go,  gentle  flowers ! 
Go  light  the  soldier's  room, 
Go  banish  care  and  gloom, 
Go,  with  a  voice  of  home 

Gladden  his  hours. 
Tell  him  of  woods  and  fields, 
Tell  him  of  hearts  and  shields, 
Tell  him  that  sadness  yields 

Kindly  to  you. 
Bear  in  your  sunny  smile 
Hopes  that  all  cares  beguile, 
Faith  in  All-Good  the  .while 

Fervent  and  true. 
Go  in  your  beauty  drest, 
Types  of  the  pure  and  blest; 
Bear  to  the  weary  rest, 

Holy  and  calm. 

Soothe,  soothe  his  bosom's  smart, 
Gladness  and  joy  impart ; 
Breathe  o'er  the  fevered  heart 

Comfort  and  balm. 
Go  in  your  summer  bloom, 
Light  up  the  soldier's  room, 
Drive  thence  all  care  and  gloom, 

Brighten  his  hours. 
Cheer  him  with  memory-gleams  — 
Pictures  of  woods  and  streams, 
Boy-haunts  and  childhood-dreams  — 

Go,  gentle  flowers ! 


THE  FIRST  VIOLET. 

Out  from  a  mossy  nook  in  a  dim  wood, 
Where,  silently  and  lone,  my  steps  intrude 
To  share  thy  solitude,  thou  lift'st  to  mine 
Soft  glances,  little  violet  —  they  shine 
Brightly  amid  the  gloom,  as  if  to  say, 
"Spring,  whom  thou  waitest,  is  not  far  away: 


816  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

I  mark  her  coming  —  that  sweet  duty  done, 
Lifting  my  timid  eyes  to  greet  the  sun, 
My  mission  ended,  my  brief  joy  complete,     • 
I  breathe  my  life  away  at  Beauty's  feet." 
Thou  speak'st  well,  sweet  blossom,  thus  to  know 
That,  with  thy  perfumed  petals  all  aglow, 
Thou  the  sweet  prophet  art  of  bird  and  flower; 
Of  vernal  summer-haunt  and  woodland  bower; 
Soft  winds,  gay  streams,  and  all  the  glorious  things, 
Vertumnia  droppeth  from  her  dewy  wings. 
I  would  compare  thee  to  the  first  fond  smile 
That  lights  with  hope  and  joy  the  heart  the  while 
From  eyes  it  worships,  shedding  a  soft  glow 
Of  trembling  rapture  on  the  depths  below  — 
Where  erst,  a  flowerless,  wintry  strand  beside, 
Life's  swelling  stream  rolled  on,  a  cheerless  tide ; 
Now  calm  and  bright,  reflecting  from  afar 
The  warm,  sweet  radiance  of  Love's  risen  star. 


THE  BLACKBERRY- VINE. 

It  climbs  o'er  the  fence  in  the  garden; 

No  trouble  it  costs  us  to  train; 
For  it  loves  the  old  worn,  faded  panels, 

And  clasps  them  again  and  again. 
It  grew  there  just  so  in  my  childho~od ; 

None  knew  how  it  came ;  but  they  said 
God  planted  the  seed  with  his  finger, 

And  straightway  it  sprang  from  the  bed. 

Now  and  then,  as  the  rain  fell  upon  it, 

We  pulled  up  the  weeds  all  around, 
And  then  carefully  lifted  the  tendrils 

That  helplessly  trailed  on  the  ground. 
So  it  flourished  and  grew  as  I  find  it 

To-day  —  a  bright,  beautiful  thing, 
With  green  memories  clustering  around  it, 

And  thoughts  of  my  life's  early  spring. 

Ay,  thoughts  of  the  days  glad  and  happy, 
When,  in  spite  of  rebuke,  I  'd  resign 

Work  or  books  for  a  romp  in  the  garden, 
Where  clambered  the  blackberry-vine. 


CORDELIA    J.    M.    JORDAN.  817 

How  temptingly  hung  the  dark  clusters  — 

Ah !  well  I  remember  to-day 
How  we  gathered  the  berries  in  summer, 

And  served  them  for  "dessert"  at  play. 

Then  the  butterflies  gambolled  about  it, 

And  poised  their  gorgeous  wings, 
Just  wherever  the  clustering  blossoms 

Their  redolent  odor  flings. 
And  the  bee  hushed  its  musical  humming 

To  kiss  the  pure,  blush-tinted  bloom, 
Or  to  steal  from  its  innocent  bosom 

A  draught  of  the  honeyed  perfume. 

Ah  f  when  winter,  drear  winter  was  over, 

And  birds  were  again  on  the  wing, 
We  knew  where  one  snug  little  sparrow 

Would  build  a  soft  nest  in  the  spring. 
Not  up  in  the  broad-spreading  oak-tree, 

Nor  yet  in  the  towering  pine; 
But  where  zephyrs  and  sunbeams  dally 

In  the  heart  of  the  blackberry-vine. 

Oh !  I  hear  even  now  in  the  stillness 

A  wild  song  of  melody  low ; 
Some  dear  bird,  through  the  shadows  of  evening, 

Brings  a  note  of  the  long  ago. 
And  I  walk  once  again  in  the  garden, 

Where  roses  of  memory  entwine  — 
As  sweet  thought  plucks  the  ripe  summer  berries 

That  grew  on  the  blackberry-vine. 


THE  SNOW. 

Softly,  softly,  beautiful  snow, 
Soft  on  the  hills  and  vales  below 
Let  thy  feathery  flakes  now  fall, 
Carefully,  carefully  over  all ; 
Wrap  in  thy  bosom  the  struggling  blade, 
Peering  through  furrows  the  ploughshare  made ; 
Fold  in  thy  white  arms  the  grain  below, 
Tenderly,  tenderly,  Beautiful  snow. 
20 


818  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Over  the  sheltering  roof  I  love, 
Spread  thy  wings  like  a  brooding  dove ; 
One  looks  out  from  her  casement  there, 
Pure  as  thyself,  as  thyself  as  fair ; 
Give  hej>A-flTCssage  of  love  for  me  — 
Tell  tier  that,  had  I  thy  liberty, 
Straight  would  I  follow  thy  white  sails  o'er 
Tempest  and  tide  to  her  open  door. 

Soft  on  the  grave-sod's  mantling  breast 
Let  thy  hovering  pinions  rest ; 
Lightly,  lightly,  beautiful  snow, 
Light  as  the  halo  that  crowns  thy  brow 
Let  thy  gossamer  robe  descend 
Where  the  willow  and  cypress  bend 
Over  the  spot  where  heroes  lie, 
Under  the  blue  sky's  canopy. 

They  are  safe  from  the  storm  without  ; 
Safe  from  the  victor's  threatening  shout; 
Safe  from  the  clouds  and  mists  that  rise, 
Shading  the  light  of  earth's  changeful  skies. 
Oh!  be  each  martyr's  laurelled  head 
Safe  from  the  shame  of  a  vandal  tread. 
Over  their  sleeping  dust  so  low, 
Rest  thee  now  tenderly,  beautiful  snow. 


LAURA  R.  FEWELL. 

MISS  FEWELL  was  born  in  Brentsville,  Prince  William  County, 
Virginia,  and  has  spent  the  greater  portion  of  her  life  there. 
Her  father  died  when  she  was  sixteen  years  of  age,  and  immediately 
after  she  commenced  teaching,  and  by  her  exertions  in  that  way  she 
has  educated  a  younger  brother  and  sister. 

She  commenced  writing  during  her  school-days,  when  she  was  chief 
contributor  to  a  school  paper  published  in  the  institution  where  she 
was  educated.  She  has  written  a  great  deal,  occasionally  publishing 
in  various  journals  —  contributing  to  Godey's  "Lady's  Book"  under 
the  nom  de  plume  of  "  Parke  Richards." 

During  the  war  she  wrote  a  novel,  "  Neria,"  which  has  not  been 
published.  In  1866,  she  came  to  Clark  County,  Georgia,  and  estab 
lished  a  school,  and  is  now  a  contributor  to  "Scott's  Magazine"  and 
other  journals. 

Miss  Fewell  is  the  best  of  daughters,  truest  of  friends,  and  a  Chris 
tian. 


A  VIRGINIA  VILLAGE.  — 1861. 

Who  does  not  distinctly  remember  the  spring  of  1861?  Not  for  the  beauty 
of  the  season,  though  that  was  as  lovely  as  smiling  skies,  balmy  winds,  and 
odorous  flower-cups  could  make  it ;  but  for  the  cloud,  at  first  scarcely  larger 
than  a  man's  hand,  that  began  to  loom  up  in  the  political  horizon,  and  the 

distant  mutterings  of  the  storm  so  soon  to  burst  upon  the  land 

Then  came  the  call  for  troops,  and  soon  the  earth  resounded  with  the 

tramp  of  armed  men There  was  a  glory  and  enthusiasm  about  the 

whole  thing  —  in  the  waving  banners,  the  glittering  uniforms,  and  nod 
ding  plumes — that  led  captive  the  imagination  and  silenced  reason.  In 
every  town  where  troops  were  quartered  the  ladies  were  affected  with  "  button 
on  the  brain ; "  and  seemed  to  think  life  was  only  made  to  be  spent  in 
walking,  riding,  dancing,  and  flirting  with  the  young  officers.  Youth  and 
gayety  were  everywhere  uppermost,  unappalled  by  the  spectacle  of  national 
distraction. 

To  a  little  village  situated  in  the  lovely  valley  lying  between  the  Bull  Kun 
and  Blue  Ridge  Mountains,  only  a  faint  echo  of  the  din  of  war  had  pene- 

819 


820  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

trutcd.  Not  a  single  company  of  soldiers  had  ever  passed  through  or  been 
ramped  in  its  vicinity  ;  and  more  than  one  of  its  young  belles  read  with  en 
vious  feelings  the  accounts  of  the  brilliant  conquests  achieved  over  the  hearts 
of  the  Carolinians  and  other  Southern  troops  by  their  correspondents  in  more 
fortunate  towns,  and  sighed  over  the  hard  fate  which  condemned  them  to 
"  waste  their  sweetness  on  the  desert  air,"  for  in  that  light  they  regarded  the 
members  of  the  county  companies,  most  of  whom  they  had  known  from 
their  childhood. 

This  little  village  merits  a  description :  —  It  figured  in  more  than  one  official 
bulletin  during  the  war.  It  consisted  of  one  long  street,  through  the  middle 
of  which  ran  the  turnpike,  and  on  either  side  of  this  the  houses. —  some  very 
pretentious-looking  structures  of  stucco  and  brick,  others  frame  buildings, 
stained  and  weather-beaten — stretched  for  nearly  a  mile.  Some  few  houses 
were  situated  on  side  streets  crossing  the  main  one  at  right  angles,  and  there 
was  a  pleasant  tradition  among  the  people  that  their  town  had  once  rejoiced 
in  back  streets,  but  these,  by  common  consent,  were  now  given  up  to  the 
hogs  and  nettles.  In  spite  of  these  drawbacks,  it  was  a  quiet,  cosey-looking 
place,  especially  when  the  trees  that  shaded  it  were  in  full  foliage,  and  every 
garden  and  door-yard  was  flushed  with  flowers  whose  fragrance  filled  the  air. 

A  stranger  would  have  thought  that  this  little  village,  lying  in  the  lap  of 
verdant  meadows,  encircled  by  the  Briarean  arms  of  the  mountains,  and  so 
remote  from  all  busy  thoroughfares  of  trade,  would  have  escaped  the  cor 
ruptions  of  larger  towns,  and  its  inhabitants,  if  not  retaining  the  simplicity 
of  country  manners,  would,  at  least,  be  free  from  the  pride  and  exclusiveness 
of  city  life.  But  a  short  residence  there  would  have  taught  him  the  fallacy 
of  this  opinion.  Not  in  Washington,  that  modern  Gomorrha  of  pride  and 
vanity,  did  the  strife  for  fashion  and  pre-eminence  rage  higher  than  in  the 
little  village  of  which  we  write.  It  might  justly  be  called  the  town  of  cliques, 
for  it  boasted  as  many  as  any  fashionable  city  extant. 

First,  forming  the  elite  of  the  place,  were  the  families  of  the  military  and 
professional  men,  and  those  of  the  large  landed  proprietors  residing  on  estates, 
and  a  few  aspirants  after  aristocracy,  who  kept  up  an  uncertain  footing  upon  the 
outer  bounds,  but  were  not  allowed  to  enter  the  arena  of  this  charmed  circle, 
from  which  all  new-comers,  whatever  their  personal  merits,  were  rigorously 
excluded,  unless  they  could  exhibit  a  long  list  of  illustrious  ancestors.  From 
this  apex  —  this  creme  de  la  creme —  society  descended,  in  graduating  circles, 
t(>  the  lowest  phase  of  social  life,  which,  strangely  enough,  was  found  in  a 
<-<i*tle;  for  so  the  inhabitant,  who  had  aspirations  above  her  station,  termed 
the  mud  walls  which  formed  her  home.  Except  a  few  loiterers,  mere 
lookers-on  at  life,  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  village  belonged  to  some  one  of 
these  circles,  which  were  entirely  separate  and  distinct,  never  infringing  on 
each  other's  privileges,  save  in  the  manner  of  scandal  and  backbiting — 
those  time-honored  adjuncts  of  village-life — except  when  some  stray  cow  or 
pig  trespassed  on  neighboring  property,  when  there  was  apt  to  be  an  out 
break  between  the  plebeians  and  patricians,  sometimes  coming  to  blows. 


MRS.  LIZZIE   PETIT  CUTLER. 

T  IZZIE  PETIT  was  born  in  the  town  of  Milton,  Virginia,  a  place 
I  J  of  some  importance  formerly,  but  which  has  been  swallowed  up 
by  the  increasing  power  and  wealth  of  its  more  widely-known  neigh 
bor,  Charlottesville.  Her  ancestry,  on  the  paternal  side,  consisted  of 
respectable  farmers;  on  the  mother's  side,  she  boasted  of  descent  from 
Monsieur  Jean  Jacques  Marie  Rene  de  Motteville  Bernard,  an  early 
emigre  to  the  colonies,  driven  from  France  by  political  disabilities. 

Monsieur  de  Bernard  married  in  Virginia,  and  lived  on  his  wife's 
estates  on  the  James  River.  Miss  Petit  had  the  great  misfortune  to 
be  left  motherless  in  her  early  childhood.  She  was  brought  up  by  her 
grandmother  and  aunt  with  tender  care  and  affection,  upon  one  of 
the  beautiful  farms  lying  under  the  shadow  of  the  Blue  Ridge  Moun 
tains,  in  that  most  picturesque  portion  of  the  State  of  Virginia,  near 
Charlottesville.  She  was  a  sprightly  child,  very  precocious,  sensitive, 
and  of  very  delicate  beauty.  She  very  soon  began  to  scribble  rhymes 
and  write  little  stories  for  her  own  and  her  cousin's  amusement.  At 
the  age  of  thirteen  she  removed  to  Charlottesville,  where  the  chape- 
ronage  of  her  aunt  enabled  her  to  mingle  in  the  gay  society  of  the 
city.  She  was  very  bright,  and  a  belle  among  the  students  at  an  age 
when  most  girls  are  scarcely  released  from  their  pinafores.  She  was 
soon  trammelled  in  Cupid's  fetters.  But  accident  produced  estrange 
ment  between  her  lover  and  herself,  and  he  departed,  to  die  in  Ala 
bama  ;  while  she,  in  the  shadow  of  this  disappointment,  found  relief 
in  the  absorption  of  literary  labor.  She  wrote  here  her  first  novel, 
"  Light  and  Darkness."  It  was  brought  out  by  the  Messrs.  Appleton, 
and  had  very  considerable  success,  both  in  this  country  and  in  Eng 
land,  where  it  ran  through  several  editions.  "  Household  Mysteries  " 
was  her  second  novel,  written  at  the  suggestion  of  Mr.  Appleton.  This 
book  was  written  in  the  vortex  of  New  York  society. 

After  eighteen  months'  rest,  Miss  Petit  wrote  again ;  but  being 
advised  unwisely,  forsook  her  steadfast  friends,  the  Appletons,  and 
proffered  her  MS.  to  the  Harpers,  who  rejected  her  work.  After 
this,  the  Messrs.  Appleton  also  refused  it.  This  was  a  great  disap- 

821 


822  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

pointment  to  the  young  girl;  and  her  means  becoming  limited,  >hr 
was  induced  to  give  a  series  of  dramatic  readings,  which  were  so  suc 
cessful  that  she  was  thinking  of  going  upon  the  stage,  encouraged  by 
the  applause  of  connoisseurs  in  the  histrionic  art.  While  preparing 
herself  lor  a  "star  engagement"  proffered  her,  she  nearly  lost  her  life 
by  her  gown  taking  fire  accidentally.  She  was  saved  by  the  presence 
of  mind  of  her  friend  Mr.  Oakley.  This  severe  affliction  caused  her 
to  pass  several  months  of  suffering  on  her  couch  ;  but  she  was  gradu 
ally  restored  to  health  by  the  affectionate  care  of  her  many  friends; 
one  among  whom  so  endeared  himself  by  his  assiduous  and  constant 
attentions,  that  upon  her  recovery  she  became  his  wife.  She  lives 
now  at  her  husband's  residence,  near  New  York,  where  she  enjoys  a 
tranquil  domestic  peace,  and  employs  her  leisure  hours  in  the  use  of 
her  pen.  She  is  engaged  in  writing  a  novel,  which  will  embrace  the 
period  of  the  war. 

Mrs.  Cutler's  sympathies,  like  those  of  all  the  true  daughters  of 
Virginia,  were  with  her  own  people  in  their  recent  struggle ;  but 
powerless  to  aid,  she  could  only  weep  over  the  misfortunes  of  her 
country.  Her  husband  has  been  a  prominent  member  of  the  Bar  in 
New  York. 


SPIRIT-MATES. 

I  always  endeavor  to  preserve,  in  every  character  and  circumstance  por 
trayed,  the  strict  unities  of  truth  and  human  nature. 

To  a  casual  observer,  the  love  existing  between  two  such  opposites  as  my 
hero  and  heroine  may  seem  rather  opposed  to  probability ;  but  I  am  sure 
one  who  looks  farther  into  cause  and  effect,  will  agree  with  me  in  pronoun 
cing  it  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 

Ida  herself,  the  perfect  type  of  all  that  was  feminine,  delicate  in  organiza 
tion,  and  timid,  notwithstanding  her  sometime  flashes  of  spirit,  worshipped 
in  Cameron  the  type  of  manliness,  bravery,  health,  strength,  and  energy. 
Perhaps,  in  some  respects,  the  intellect  of  the  woman  was  superior  —  that  U. 
she  had  more  of  those  finer  gifts  of  genius  to  which  men,  in  all  ages,  have 
yielded  homage ;  more  of  that  rare  union  of  ideality  and  passion,  which 
gives  to  the  harp  of  poesy  the  chord  which  vibrates  in  the  hearts  of  the 
multitude ;  and  it  was  better  so :  for  these  qualities,  in  the  exquisite  fineness 
of  their  moral  texture,  suit  better  a  woman  than  a  man. 

The  world  may  drink  in  the  passionate  incense  which  genius  burns  on 
the  shrine  of  feeling,  until  their  whole  moral  nature  becomes  purified  and 


LIZZIE    PETIT    CUTLER.  823 

elevated;  but  the  "spirits  finely  moulded,"  which  have  given  birth  to 
thoughts  like  these,  suit  not  to  come  in  contact  with  the  jagged  edges  and 
rude  paths  of  common  life. 

Within  the  world  of  her  own  home,  a  woman  of  fine  intellect  and  feelings 
may,  unless  opposed  by  extraordinary  adverse  influences,  create  an  atmos 
phere  redolent  of  all  that  the  most  dreamy  and  ideal  worshipper  of  the  holy 
and  beautiful  could  desire ;  but  a  man  must  tread  rough  paths ;  he  must 
come  in  contact  with  the  coarse  and  vulgar  elements  which  compose  a  por 
tion  of  the  world ;  and  alas !  it  needs  not  to  tell  how  often  the  children  of 
poesy  have  laved  their  spirit-plumes  in  the  muddy,  turbid  waters  of  the 
world's  recklessness  and  vice. 

It  needs  not  to  tell ;  for  their  fall,  like  that  of  the  children  of  light  in  the 
olden  time,  is  never  forgotten.  The  remembrance,  like  a  shadowy  pall, 
darkens  future  ages  with  its  influence. 

But  to  return  to  the  more  immediate  theory  of  our  present  discussion. 

Nature  created  men  and  women  in  pairs.  There  can  be  no  more  doubt  of 
this  than  the  laws  of  affinity  in  the  science  of  chemistry.  There  is  the 
essence  of  truth  in  the  homely  saying,  "  Matches  were  made  in  heaven ;  but 
they  get  terribly  mixed  coming  down." 

There  is  for  every  one  a  spirit-mate ;  one  who,  morally,  mentally,  and 
physically,  must  gratify  every  necessity  of  our  being ;  with  whom  to  live 
would  be  happiness :  such  happiness  as  would  at  once  ennoble  and  elevate 
our  nature,  bringing  it  nearer  to  that  of  the  angels. 

And  in  our  search  for  a  being  like  this,  we  often  pass  them  in  our  own 
blind  folly,  rather  than  through  the  influence  of  that  fabled  power  men  call 
destiny. 

Allured  by  some  passing  meteor,  turned  aside  by  convenience,  caprice, 
passion,  we  wander  from  the  star  whose  light,  in  after  years,  we  remember 
with  the  vain  prayer : 

"  Oh  !  would  it  shone  to  guide  us  still, 
Although  to  death  or  deadliest  ill." 

What  is  the  ideal  cherished,  even  though  vaguely,  in  the  mind  of  every 
one,  but  a  dreamy  sense,  an  unconscious  divination  —  if  I  may  so  express  it 
—  of  the  existence  of  a  being  formed  by  nature  to  blend  with  and  become  a 
part  of  ourselves  ? 

The  loves  of  a  lifetime — what  are  they  but  the  illusions  of  an  hour,  when, 
deceived  by  some  passing  resemblance,  we  cry,  Eureka!  and  think  the  bourne 
is  found  —  until  the  heart,  disappointed,  recoils  upon  itself,  or  circumstance 
mercifully  tears  the  counterfeit  from  our  clinging  grasp. 

God  forbid  that  there  should  be  many  loves  in  a  lifetime ;  for  't  is  a  sad 
thing,  nay,  't  is  a  sin,  to  waste  on  many  feelings  which  should  be  the  hoarded 
wealth  of  one ;  like  the  scattering  drops  of  a  rare  perfume,  which  sweeten  the 


824  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

common  atmosphere,  but  can  never  return  to  the  source  from  whence  they 
emanated. 

I  have  sometimes  thought  there  might  be  an  inner  fount  shut  deep  in  the 
soul,  never  to  be  unsealed  save  at  the  magic  touch ;  never  to  give  forth  its 
wealth  of  thrilling  bliss  and  unalloyed  sweetness  to  aught  save  the  one. 

'Tis  a  blessed  belief!  And  yet  how  sad  it  is  to  reflect  that  many  live 
who  are  destined  never  to  have  the  seal  removed  from  the  lip  of  the  foun 
tain  ;  many,  too,  who  are  surrounded  by  all  the  nearer  ties  of  life — ties  formed 
in  haste  by  the  force  of  circumstance,  convenience,  expediency  !  Far  better 
to  live  and  die  alone,  than  thus  to  rebel  against  the  good  angel  of  our  nature, 
clasping  the  cold  corpse  of  happiness,  while  its  soul  sleeps  in  the  unsealed 
fount  of  our  own  bosom,  or  animates  the  form  of  the  far-off  unseen  being, 
between  whom  and  ourselves  we  have  opened  an  impassable  gulf. 


NORTH  CAROLINA, 


825 


MARY   BAYARD   CLARKE. 

BY  JUDGE  EDWIN  O.   EEADE. 

NE  of  the  sweetest  poets  and  truest  women  of  America  is 
Mrs.  Mary  Bayard  Clarke,  a  native  of  Raleigh,  North  Caro 
lina.  Her  prose  writings,  as  well  as  her  poems,  are  charac 
terized  chiefly  by  simplicity,  power,  and  naturalness.  Hear 
ing  Daniel  Webster  speak,  one  was  apt  to  feel,  "  That  is  just  what 
ought  to  be  said  on  the  subject;  and  I  could  say  it  just  as  he  has  done." 
The  like  may  truly  be  said  of  Mrs.  Clarke's  poetry:  there  is  no  strain 
ing  after  effect  —  no  doubling  and  twisting  to  make  a  rhyme  —  no 
climbing  after  a  sentiment,  or  ranting  over  a  passion  —  no  gaudy 
dress  or  want  of  neat  attire.  It  is  just  what  you  would  feel ;  and  just 
what  you,  or  anybody  else,  would  say  —  as  you  think.  But  try  it  — 
and  it  will  prove  to  be  just  what  you  cannot  say.  This  simplicity  and 
power  makes  her  poetry  in  the  parlor  what  Daniel  Webster's  speeches 
were  in  the  Senate. 

Mrs.  Clarke  i.s  a  daughter  of  Thomas  P.  Devereux,  an  eminent 
lawyer  and  large  Roanoke  planter :  her  grandmother,  Mrs.  Frances 
Devereux,  a  granddaughter  of  the  celebrated  logician,  Jonathan 
Edwards,  President  of  Princeton  College,  was  a  woman  of  remarkable 
intellectual  endowments,  and  well  known  in  the  Presbyterian  Church, 
both  at  the  North  and  the  South,  for  her  piety  and  liberality. 

Reared  in  affluence,  thoroughly  educated,  and  highly  accomplished, 
the  subject  of  our  notice  married,  at  an  early  age,  William  J.  Clarke,  Esq., 
of  North  Carolina,  who  had  entered  the  United  States  Army  at  the 
beginning  of  the  Mexican  war ;  and  after  being  brevetted  as  a  major 
for  gallant  conduct  at  the  battles  of  the  National  Bridge,  Paso  Ovejas, 
and  Cerro  Gordo,  had  retired  from  the  army  on  a  pension  granted 
him  for  wounds  received  in  the  service  of  his  country,  and  resumed 
the  practice  of  the  law  in  his  native  State. 

Her  position  in  society  was  one  of  ease  and  elegance ;  and  her  con 
tributions  to  literature  were  induced  by  the  love  of  the  beautiful  and 

827 


828  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

intellectual,  and  by  the  ease  with  which  she  composed,  both  in  prose 
and  poetry.  Her  productions  were  mere  pastimes  —  the  pleasures  of 
thought  and  the  scintillations  of  genius.  Her  fragile  form  was  soon, 
however,  seen  by  her  husband  to  be  drooping:  consumption  was  here 
ditary  in  her  mother's  family ;  and,  to  save  her  from  falling  a  victim 
to  it,  he  carried  her,  first  to  the  West  Indies,  and  finally  to  the  salu 
brious  climate  of  Western  Texas,  where  she  resided,  with  her  little 
family,  at  San  Antonio  de  Bexar,  until  the  beginning  of  the  late  war, 
when  they  returned  to.  North  Carolina,  and  Major  Clarke  took  com 
mand  of  the  24th  North  Carolina  Regiment,  and  served  during  the 
whole  war  as  its  colonel.  The  long  and  "cruel  war"  brought  adver 
sities  in  fortune,  and  then  came  out  all  the  force  of  Mrs.  Clarke's  char 
acter,  the  brilliancy  of  her  genius,  and  the  nobleness  of  her  soul,  in 
educating  her  children,  sustaining  her  family,  and  inspiriting  her 
countrymen.  Her  pen  was  constantly  busy  in  correspondence,  in  poe 
try,  and  in  translations  from  the  French  ;  in  which  latter  she  is  con 
sidered  by  the  best  judges  —  educated  Frenchmen  —  to  be  particu 
larly  happy. 

Some  of  her  poems  were  collected  and  published  in  a  volume  called 
"  Mosses  from  a  Rolling  Stone ;  or,  The  Idle  Moments  of  a  Busy 
Woman,"  which  was  sold  for  the  benefit  of  the  fund  for  the  Stonewall 
Cemetery,  in  Winchester,  Va. ;  but  much  the  larger,  and,  her  friends 
say,  much  the  better  portion  of  them  have  only  appeared  in  the  peri 
odicals  of  the  day. 

What  Mrs.  Clarke  was  some  few  years  ago,  is  very  graphically  and 
truthfully  portrayed  in  a  sketch  which  appeared  not  long  since,  from  the 
pen  of  some  unknown  admirer,  who  met  her  in  Havana.  All  her  fac 
ulties  are  now  matured.  Not  so  beautiful,  of  course,  as  when  younger, 
she  is  yet  far  more  interesting.  Her  conversational  powers  are  re 
markable,  and  her  manners  distinguished  by  their  graceful  ease  and 
playfulness.  Sparkling  and  impulsive,  she  is  also  gentle,  amiable, 
pious,  and  industrious  beyond  her  strength. 

In  all  she  has  written,  there  cannot  be  found  a  sentiment  that  is  not 
as  pure  as  snow,  nor  an  expression  unsuited  for  the  ear  of  the  most 
delicate  refinement.  Though  much  of  her  own  history  and  many  of 
her  trials  are  necessarily  shadowed  forth  in  her  poetry,  there  is  no  ap 
pearance  in  it  of  an  effort  to  "  serve  up  her  own  heart  with  brain- 
sauce"  for  the  taste  of  the  public. 

"  The  Mother's  Dream,"  in  which  she  says  "  conflicting  duties  wore 


MARY  BAYARD  CLARKE.  829 

away  her  strength  and  life,"  though  doubtless  a  page  from  her  own 
experience,  speaks  directly  to  the  heart  of  every  conscientious  mother, 
and  is  but  a  leaf  from  the  life  of  all  who,  like  her,  resolve  to  climb 
the  hill  of  maternal  duty, 

"  Unmurmuring  at  the  petty  round  she  daily  trod, 
But  doing  what  came  first,  and  leaving  all  to  God." 

"  My  Children  "  were  emphatically  her  children.  It  was  published 
first  in  the  ISTew  Orleans  "  Picayune,"  anonymously,  and  as  many  as  a 
dozen  friends,  in  different  parts  of  the  United  States,  cut  it  out  and  sent 
it  to  her,  because  it  so  exactly  suited  her  and  her  two  little  ones. 
Who,  that  knows  them,  can  doubt  that  she  expresses  her  own  feelings, 
when  she  says, 

"  Though  many  other  blessings 

Around  my  footsteps  fall, 
My  children  and  their  father 
Are  brightest  of  them  all"? 

How  beautiful  is  her  description  of  "  the  sweet  notes  of  memory :  " 

"  Like  the  perfume  that  lingers  where  roses  are  crushed, 
The  echo  of  song  when  the  music  is  hushed ! " 

And  how  chaste  and  poetic  the  discrimination  in  "  Smiles  and  Roses," 
where  she  says : 

"A  smile  may  be  given  to  many  — 

'Tis  only  of  friendship  a  part; 
But  I  give  not  a  kiss  unto  any 
Who  has  not  the  love  of  my  heart ! " 

These  selections  are  all  from  her  earlier  poems :  those  written  later 
in  life  have  more  concentrated  force,  and  more  passionate  depth  of 
feeling,  with  equal  sweetness  and  simplicity. 

Her  lines  to  General  Robert  E.  Lee  are  highly  poetical  and  finished ; 
so  much  is  seldom  found  concentrated  and  clearly  expressed  in  such 
a  short  space : 

"  You  lay  your  sword  with  honor  down, 
And  wear  defeat  as  't  were  a  crown, 
Nor  sit,  like  Marius,  brooding  o'er 
A  ruin  which  can  rise  no  more; 
But  from  your  Pavia  bear  away 
A  glory  brightening  every  day  " — 


830  SOUTHLAND     WRITERS. 

describes  General  Lee's  deportment  and  conduct  since  the  surrender 
most  accurately ;  while  the  closing  lines  show  an  appreciation  of  the 
feelings  hidden  under  his  dignified  serenity  which  must  have  touched 
his  heart  when  he  read  them  : 

"  But  who  can  tell  how  deep  the  dart 
Is  rankling  in  your  noble  heart, 
Or  dare  to  pull  the  robe  aside 
Which  Caesar  draws  his  wounds  to  hide?" 

"Must  I  Forget?"  which  was  by  mistake  put  among  the  transla 
tions  from  the  French,  is  not  excelled  by  anything  Byron  ever  wrote 
for  the  strong  expression  of  a  deep  passion ;  while  "  It  Might  Have 
Been,"  "  Under  the  Lava,"  and  "  Grief,"  have  a  depth  and  force  of 
feeling,  with  a  clearness  and  terseness  of  expression  seldom  found  in 
the  writings  of  a  woman.  This  is  but  a  tame  criticism  of  what  will  in 
future  be  cherished  as  part  of  the  purest  and  brightest  literature  of 
the  age ;  but  space  beyond  the  limits  of  this  article  would  be  needed 
to  do  justice  to  the  subject. 

The  following  is  a  sketch  of  Mrs.  Clarke,  taken  from  a  Baltimore 
paper : 

"LA  TENELLA. 

"  Some  years  ago,  during  a  '  health-trip  to  the  tropics,'  it  was  my  good 
fortune  to  spend  four  months  in  the  company  of  a  lady  who  is  now  well 
known  in  Southern  literature,  not  only  as  '  Tenella,'  the  nom  de  plume  she 
first  adopted,  but  also  by  her  real  name  of  Mrs.  Mary  Bayard  Clarke. 
Sprightly,  intellectual,  and  remarkable,  not  only  for  her  easy,  graceful  man 
ners,  but  also  for  her  delicate,  fragile  beauty,  she  was  the  acknowledged 
'  queen  of  society '  in  the  circle  in  which  she  moved.  The  Spanish  Creoles 
are  very  frank  in  their  admiration  of  beauty,  which  they  regard  as  the  gift 
of  God,  not  only  to  the  possessor,  but  to  the  admirer  of  it;  and  nothing  like 
the  furore  created  among  thein  by  the  blue  eyes,  fair  complexion,  masses  of 
soft,  sunny  curls,  and  clear-cut,  intellectual  features  of  this  lady  can  be  con 
ceived  of  in  this  country. 

"  The  first  time  I  ever  saw  her  was  at  the  Tacon  Theatre.  She  was  lean 
ing  on  the  arm  of  Mr.  Gales  Seaton,  of  the  '  National  Intelligencer,'  and 
surrounded  by  three  or  four  British  naval  and  Spanish  army  officers,  in  full 
uniform ;  and  as  the  party  walked  into  the  private  box  of  the  Spanish  admi 
ral,  every  eye  was  turned  upon  them,  and  a  hum  of  admiration  rose  from 
the  spectators,  such  as  could  only  be  heard,  in  similar  circumstances,  from  a 
Spanish  audience. 

"Shortly  after  this,  I  met  her  at  a  ball  given  by  the  British  consul-general 


MARY  BAYARD  CLARKE.  831 

at  the  Aldama  Palace,  and  was  presented  to  her  by  Mr.  Seaton,  and,  from 
that  time,  saw  her  almost  daily  for  the  four  months  during  which  she 
reigned  the  acknowledged  queen  of  the  small  but  select  circle  of  English 
and  Americans  residing  in  the  city  of  Havana ;  increased,  as  it  is  every 
winter,  by  visitors  from  every  part  of  the  United  States,  English,  American, 
and  French  naval  officers,  and  such  other  foreigners  as  speak  English.  A 
more  brilliant  circle  than  it  was  that  winter  it  would  be  hard  to  find  any 
where. 

"  But  while  to  casual  observers  Mrs.  Clarke  was  but  the  enfant  gate  of  society, 
to  those  who  looked  further  she  was  also  the  highly  cultivated,  intellectual 
woman.  The  Honorable  Miss  Murray,  then  on  her  Anferican  tour,  was 
charmed  with  her,  and  said  she  was  the  only  woman  she  had  met  in  America, 
who,  without  being  a  blue-stocking,  was  yet  thoroughly  educated.  '  She  has 
not  an  accomplishment,'  said  that  lady,  '  beyond  her  highly  cultivated 
conversational  powers;  but  they,  with  her  beauty  and  graceful  manners, 
would  render  her  an  ornament  to  any  circle  in  which  she  might  move.' 

"  But  the  lady-in-waiting  of  Queen  Victoria  was  mistaken,  for  Mrs.  Clarke 
had  two  accomplishments  rarely  found  in  perfection  among  ladies:  she  was 
a  bold,  fearless,  and  remarkably  graceful  horsewoman,  and  played  an  ad 
mirable  game  of  chess. 

"  Speaking  one  day  to  Mr.  Seaton  of  her  quickness,  and  the  felicitous  skill 
with  which  she  threw  off  little  jeu  d'esprits,  in  the  shape  of  vers  de  societe, 
he  replied :  '  She  is  capable  of  better  things  than  she  has  yet  done ;  and,  if 
she  lives  long  enough,  will,  I  predict,  make  a  name  for  herself  among  the 
poets  of  our  country.  I  may  not  live  to  see  the  noontide  of  her  success,  but 
I  already  discern  its  dawn.'  He  did  not  live  to  see  much  more  than  this 
dawn,  but  he  instigated  and  suggested  much  that  has  brightened  that  success. 
Walking  one  day  in  the  Quintet  del  Obispo  with  Mrs.  Clarke,  he  said  to  her, 
'  I  shall  expect  a  poem  from  you,  describing  these  triumphs  of  summer  as 
beautifully  as  you  have  already  described  the  "Triumphs  of  Spring.'"  It 
was  not  until  years  after  that  '  Gan  Eden '  appeared  in  the  '  Southern  Lit 
erary  Messenger : '  and,  although  my  poor  friend  had  long  before  died  of  the 
disease  with  which  he  was  threatened  when  he  uttered  these  words,  I  saw  the 
effect  of  them  as  soon  as  I  read  that  poem,  which  is  one  of  the  most  truthful 
as  well  as  poetic  descriptions  of  the  tropical  beauties  of  the  '  Isle  of  Flowers : ' 

"Tis  the  Queen  of  the  Antilles 

Seated  on  her  emerald  throne, 
Crowned  with  ever-blooming  flowers 

And  a  beauty  all  her  own. 
With  a  grace  that 's  truly  regal, 

Sits  she  in  her  lofty  seat, 
Watching  o'er  the  subject  islands 

In  the  ocean  at  her  feet. 


832  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

'  While  its  waters,  blue  as  heaven, 

Laughing,  leap  upon  her  breast, 
Where  all  nature  ever  seemeth 

For  a  happy  bridal  drest. 
Truly  is  it  culled  "  Qan  Eden," 

'T  is  a  garden  of  delight ;  , 

But,  alas !  the  serpent's  trailing 

O'er  the  beauty  casts  a  blight.' 

"  All  can  realize  the  beauty  of  these  lines ;  but  none  but  one  who  has  seen 
'  a  stately  ceyba-tree '  in  '  the  poisonous  embraces '  of  a  '  deadly  Jagua 
Chacho  '  —  a  creeping  vine  of  exquisite  beauty,  which  destroys  all  life  in  the 
tree  to  which  it  clings  —  can  fully  realize  the  beauty  as  well  as  the  force  of 
the  simile  which  follows  it.  Neither  can  justice  be  done  to  the  verse, 

'  Where  the  cucullos  at  even  — 

Insect  watchmen  of  the  night  — 

On  the  sleeping  leaves  and  flowers 

Shed  their  emerald-tinted  light,' 

by  one  who  has  never  seen  the  long  files  of  watchmen,  each  with  his  lantern 
lighted,  start  from  the  Plaza,  and  scatter  over  the  city  of  Havana  just  as  the 
short  tropic  twilight  begins,  nor  marked  the  beautiful,  pale,  green-tinted 
glow  cast  by  the  Cuban  fire-flies  —  cucullos  — •  over  the  object  on  which  they 
light. 

"  Several  of  the  poems  in  Mrs.  Clarke's  last  book,  '  Mosses  from  a  Rolling 
Stone,'  show,  to  one  intimate  with  him,  that  Mr.  Seaton,  who  was  a  man  of 
rare  taste  and  great  originality  of  thought,  had  at  this  time  much  influence  in 
developing  the  powers  which  he  saw  were  unknown  in  their  full  force  to  their 
possessor.  Let  me  not,  however,  be  understood  as  detracting  from  Mrs. 
Clarke's  originality  by  this  remark.  It  is  the  attribute  of  art  to  suggest  infi 
nitely  more  than  it  expresses,  and  of  genius  to  catch  suggestions,  no  matter 
from  what  source,  and  reproduce  them  stamped  with  its  own  unmistakable 
mark ;  and  one  of  the  chief  beauties  of  Mrs.  Clarke's  poetry  lies  in  her 
ability  to  invest  with  a  new  and  poetic  beauty  the  common  things  of  every 
day  life.  Who  can  read  without  emotion  those  exquisite  lines  of  hers,  '  The 
Rain  upon  the  Hills'?  or  that  beautiful  household- poem  'The  Mother's 
Dream '  ?  She  is  as  remarkable  for  strength  as  for  richness  of  imagery  :  there 
is  nothing  weak  in  any  of  her  poems,  and  some  passages  of  great  force  and 
depth  of  feeling.  Take,  for  instance,  '  Aphrodite '  and  '  It  Might  Have 
Been : '  when  I  read  them,  I  felt  that  Mr.  Seaton's  prophecy  was  fulfilled, 
and  she  had  indeed  'jnade  herself  a  name  among  the  poets  of  our  land,'  and 
was  a  literary  as  well  as  a  social  queen. 

"  I  cannot  better  close  this  short  and  imperfect  sketch  than  by  giving  you 
an  account  of  the  reading  of  her  magnificent  poem, '  The  Battle  of  Manassas/ 


MAEY  BAYARD  CLARKE.  833 

among  the  prisoners  of  Fort  Warren.  Mr.  S.  Teakle  Wallis,  of  Baltimore, 
was  the  first  to  get  the  paper  in  which  it  was  published.  It  was  the  hour 
for  exercise,  and  most  of  the  Confederate  prisoners  were  in  the  court.  Rush 
ing  down  among  them,  Mr.  Wallis  jumped  on  a  barrel  and  exclaimed, 
'  Boys,  I  have  something  to  read  to  you.'  From  the  animation  of  his 
manner,  and  the  sparkle  of  his  eye,  they  knew  it  was  something  they  would 
like,  and  instantly  gathered  around  him,  when  he  read,  with  all  the  emphasis 
of  a  poet  who  feels  every  word  that  he  utters : 

'  Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts  !  oh,  bless  and  praise  His  Name ! 
For  he  has  battled  in  our  cause,  and  brought  our  foes  to  shame. 
And  honor  to  our  Beauregard,  who  conquered  in  His  might, 
And  for  our  children's  children  won  Manassas'  bloody  fight. 
Oh  !  let  our  thankful  prayers  ascend,  our  joyous  praise  resound, 
For  God  —  the  God  of  victory  —  our  untried  flag  hath  crowned.' 

"  Before  he  had  half  finished  reading  there  was  not  one  of  those  strong  men 
who  did  not  shed  tears ;  and  when  he  had  finished,  such  a  shout  went  up  from 
them  that  the  guards  came  running  out  to  see  if  there  was  not  an  outbreak 
among  the  prisoners. 

"  I  have  never  seen  Mrs.  Clarke  since  we  parted  on  the  '  Isle  of  Flowers,' 
but  I  have  watched  her  literary  career  ever  since,  and  eagerly  read  all  the 
poems  under  the  signature  of  '  Tenella.'  Latterly,  she  has  turned  her  at 
tention  more  to  prose  than  poetry,  and  is  a  contributor  to  '  The  Land  we 
Love,'  as  well  as  several  other  periodicals.  Her  '  Aunt  Abby  the  Irrepres 
sible,'  in  the  first-mentioned  magazine,  has  rendered  her  name  a  household 
word  among  all  its  readers.  After  several  years  spent  in  Texas,  she  returned 
to  her  native  State,  and  at  present  resides  in  North  Carolina.  She  has  won 
considerable  reputation  by  her  translations  from  the  French,  and  some  of 
her  translations  of  Victor  Hugo's  poems  have  been  republished  in  England, 
where  they  attracted  attention  by  the  beauty  of  the  rhythm  into  which  they 
are  so  truthfully  rendered. 

But  her  '  Battle  of  Manassas,'  '  Battle  of  Hampton  Roads,'  and  her 
'  Rebel  Sock/  together  with  other  of  her  war  poems,  have  given  her  a 
home  reputation  which  renders  her  poems  '  household  words '  by  many  a 
Southern  hearth." 

Mrs.  Clarke  seldom  signs  her  name  to  her  prose  articles.  Shortly 
after  her  return  from  Havana,  she  wrote  "  Reminiscences  of  Cuba," 
for  the  "Southern  Literary  Messenger,"  1855.  She  translated  from  the 
French  for  a  Confederate  publication,  "  Marguerite ;  or,  Two  Loves," 
and  has  published  considerably  under  the  pseudonym  of  "Stuart 
Leigh."  "  General  Sherman  in  Raleigh,"  "  The  South  Expects  Every 
Woman  to  do  her  Duty,"  and  other  sketches,  appearing  in  the  "  Old 
21 


834  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Guard,"  New  York,  with  "  The  Divining  Rod,"  in  Demorest's  "  Monthly  " 
in  the  full  of  1867,  and  a  novelette  in  "  Peterson's  Magazine,"  and  "  Social 
Reminiscences  of  Noted  North-Carolinians,"  appearing  in  "The  Land 
we  Love"  —  beside  contributing  as  editress  to  the  "  Literary  Pastime," 
a  weekly  journal  published  in  Richmond  —  show  she  is  an  elegant 
prose  writer. 


APHRODITE. 

'T  was  in  the  spring-time  of  the  world, 
The  sun's  red  banners  were  unfurled, 
And  slanting  rays  of  golden  light 
Just  kissed  the  billows  tipped  with  white, 
And  through  the  waters'  limpid  blue 
Flashed  down  to  where  the  sea-weed  grew, 
While  rainbow  hues  of  every  shade 
Across  the  restless  surface  played. 
Then,  as  the  rays  grew  stronger  still, 
They  sought  the  sea-girt  caves  to  fill, 
And  sparkled  on  the  treasures  rare 
That  all  unknown  were  hidden  there. 
Roused  by  their  warm,  electric  kiss, 
The  ocean  thrilled  with  wak'ning  bliss  : 
Its  gasping  sob  and  heaving  breast 
The  power  of  inborn  life  confest  ; 
But,  though  their  waves  were  tossed  ashore, 
Upon  their  crests  no  life  they  bore. 

Deep  hidden  in  its  deepest  cave, 

Unmoved  by  current,  wind,  or  wave, 

A  purple  shell,  of  changing  shade, 

By  nature's  careful  hand  was  laid : 

The  clinging  sea-weed,  green  and  brown, 

With  fibrous  grasp  still  held  it  down 

Despite  the  waters'  restless  flow  ; 

But  when  they  caught  that  deep'ning  glow, 

They  flushed  with  crimson,  pink,  and  gold, 

And  from  the  shell  unclasped  their  hold. 

Its  shadowy  bonds  thus  drawn  aside, 

It  upward  floated  on  the  tide ; 

But  still  its  valves  refused  to  yield, 

And  still  its  treasure  was  concealed. 


MARY  BAYARD  CLARKE.  835 

Close  shut  upon  the  waves  it  lay 

Till  warmly  kissed  by  one  bright  ray ; 

When,  lo !  its  pearly  tips  unclose, 

As  ope  the  petals  of  the  rose, 

And  pure  and  fresh  as  morning  dew 

Fair  Aphrodite  rose  to  view. 

First  —  like  a  startled  child  amazed  — 

On  earth  and  air  and  sea  she  gazed; 

Then  shook  the  wavy  locks  of  gold 

That  o'er  her  neck  and  bosom  rolled, 

Loosened  the  cestus  on  her  breast, 

'Gainst  which  her  throbbing  heart  now  prest ; 

For,  ah !  its  clasp  could  not  restrain 

The  new-born  life  that  thrilled  each  vein, 

Flushed  to  her  rosy  fingers'  tips, 

And  deeply  dyed  her  parted  lips, 

Spread  o'er  her  cheek  its  crimson  glow, 

And  tinged  her  heaving  bosom's  snow. 

Conscious  of  beauty  and  its  power, 
She  owns  the  influence  of  the  hour  — 
Instinct  with  life,  attempts  to  rise : 
Her  quick-drawn  breath  melts  into  sighs, 
Her  half-closed  eyes  in  moisture  swim, 
And  languid  droops  each  rounded  limb; 
With  yielding  grace  her  lovely  head 
Sinks  back  upon  its  pearly  bed, 
Where  changing  shades  of  pink  attest 
The  spot  her  glowing  cheek  hath  prest. 
There  all  entranced  she  silent  lay, 
Borne  on  'mid  showers  of  silvery  spray, 
Which  caught  the  light  and  backward  fell 
In  sparkling  diamonds  round  her  shell. 
Thus,  wafted  by  the  western  breeze, 
Cytherea's  flowery  isle  she  sees : 
Its  spicy  odors  round  her  float, 
And  thither  glides  her  purple  boat; 
And,  when  its  prow  had  touched  the  land, 
There  stepped  upon  the  golden  sand, 
With  life  and  love  and  beauty  warm, 
A  perfect  woman's  matchless  form. 

The  tale  is  old,  yet  always  new, 
To  every  heart  which  proves  it  true : 
The  limpid  waters  of  the  soul 
In  snow-crowned  waves  of  feeling  roll, 


836  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Until  love's  soft,  pervading  light 
Has  into  color  kissed  the  white, 
And  in  its  deep  reei^ses  shown 
Rich  treasures  to  itself  unknown  — 
Though  many  restless  soh  and  sigh, 
Nor  ever  learn  the  reason  why; 
While  others  wake  with  sudden  start 
To  feel  the  glow  pervade  their  heart, 
Flash  down  beneath  its  surface  swell 
And  shine  on  Passion's  purple  shell, 
Change  to  the  rainbow's  varying  hue 
The  ties  it  may  not  rend  in  two ; 
Till  doubts  and  fears,  which  held  it  fast, 
Beneath  love's  glow  relax  their  grasp : 
Slowly  the  network  fades  away, 
Like  fleecy  clouds  at  opening  day, 
And  Passion,  woke  by  warmth  and  light, 
In  deep'ning  shades  springs  into  sight. 

But  man  the  shell  too  often  holds 
Nor  sees  the  beauty  it  unfolds ; 
Its  close-shut  valves  refuse  to  part, 
And  show  the  depths  of  woman's  heart. 
And  tossing  on  life's  billows  high, 
The  purple  shell  unoped  may  lie, 
Till  cast  on  Death's  cold,  rocky  shore, 
Its  life  and  longing  both  are  o'er. 
But  if  Love's  warm,  entrancing  light 
Shall  kiss  the  parting  lips  aright, 
And  wake  to  life  the  beauty  rare 
Which  nature's  self  hath  hidden  there, 
Beneath  his  soft,  enraptured  smile 
'T  is  wafted  to  the  flowery  isle, 
And  Aphrodite  steps  ashore 
A  perfect  woman  —  nothing  more. 


AN  EPITHANATON. 

General  Leonidas  Polk,  C.  S.  A.,  killed  on  Pine  Mountain,  June  11,  1864. 
;  The  tear-drops  of  sorrow  may  form  a  rainbow  of  glory  above  the  grief-stricken  head. 

Amid  the  clouds  of  grief  and  woe 
Again  our  God  hath  set  his  bow, 
For  o'er  the  flood  of  bitter  strife 
There  shines  another  hero's  life  — 


MARY  BAYARD  CLARKE.  837 

A  hero's  life  and  death,  to  tell 

God  loves  the  cause  for  which  he  fell  ; 

For  though  our  tears  fall  down  like  rain, 

We  cannot  feel  he  died  in  vain. 

Baptized  by  God  Himself  with  flame, 

Oh,  let  his  death  aloud  proclaim 

To  hearts  which  sink  'neath  grief  and  fear, 

"  Look  up !  look  up !  for  freedom's  near ! " 

Yes,  yes,  the  strife  is  nearly  done, 

Or  God  had  left  this  needful  one, 

Who  on  the  mountain-top  hath  died 

As  Moses  did  on  Nebo's  side: 

Like  him,  our  promised  land  he  saw 

Beyond  the  rolling  clouds  of  war, 

A  land  of  peace  and  happiness 

Which  he  himself  might  not  possess; 

For  as  the  diamond's  fragments  must, 

To  polish  it,  be  ground  to  dust, 

Her  brightest  gems  our  country  yields 

To  die  upon  her  battle-fields, 

And  o'er  a  mourning  nation  cast 

The  glory  of  a  life  that 's  past. 

And  oh !  how  brilliant  is  the  bow 

That  from  the  storm-cloud  now  doth  glow  I 

For  though  beside  hope's  vivid  green 

The  crimson  flush  of  pain  is  seen, 

See  joy's  bright  gold  in  rich  relief 

Shine  out  above  our  violet  grief, 

While  next  to  doubt's  dark,  sombre  hue 

Comes  freedom's  pure  and  dazzling  blue. 

Thus,  woven  by  a  Hand  Divine, 

Amid  the  darkest  clouds  they  shine, 

While  from  them  gleams  the  perfect  light 

Of  God's  own  love  in  spotless  white. 

Then  chant  no  dirge,  and  toll  no  knell, 

But  let  a  glorious  anthem  swell 

In  mem'ry  of  the  Church's  son, 

Who  fought  the  fight,  and  vict'ry  won. 


838  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 


UNDER  THE  LAVA. 

Far  down  in  the  depths  of  my  spirit, 

Out  of  the  sight  of  man, 
Lies  a  buried  Herculaneum, 

Whose  secrets  none  may  scan. 
No  warning'  cloud  of  sorrow 

Cast  its  shadow  o'er  my  way, 
No  drifting  shower  of  ashes 

Made  of  life  a  Pompeii; 
But  a  sudden  tide  of  anguish 

Like  molten  lava  rolled, 
And  hardened,  hardened,  hardened 

As  its  burning  waves  grew  cold. 
Beneath  it  youth  was  buried, 

And  love,  and  hope,  and  trust, 
And  life  unto  me  seemed  nothing  — 

Nothing  but  ashes  and  dust. 
Oh !  it  was  glorious !  glorious ! 

That  Past,  with  its  passionate  glow, 
Its  beautiful  painted  frescoes, 

Its  statues  white  as  snow, 
When  I  tasted  Love's  ambrosia, 

As  it  melted  in  a  kiss; 
When  I  drank  the  wine  of  Friendship, 

And  believed  in  earthly  bliss ; 
When  I  breathed  the  rose's  perfume, 

With  lilies  wreathed  my  hair, 
And  moved  to  liquid  music 

As  it  floated  on  the  air. 
To  me  it  was  real  —  real, 

That  passionate,  blissful  joy 
Which  Grief  may  incrust  with  lava, 

But  Death  can  alone  destroy. 
'Twas  a  life  all  bright  and  golden, 

Bright  with  the  light  of  love; 
A  Past  still  living,  though  buried 

With  another  life  above  — 
Another  life  built  o'er  it, 

With  other  love  and  friends, 
Which  my  spirit  often  leaveth, 

And  into  the  past  descends 
Though  buried  deep  in  ashes 

Of  burnt-out  hopes  it  lies, 


MARY  BAYARD  CLARKE.  839 

Under  the  hardened  lava, 

From  which  it  ne'er  can  rise, 
It  is  no  ruined  city  — 

No  city  of  the  dead  — 
When  in  the  midnight  watches 

Its  silent  streets  I  tread. 
To  me  it  changeth  never, 

Buried  in  all  its  prime, 
Not  fading  —  fading  —  fading 

Under  the  touch  of  Time. 
The  beautiful  frescoes  painted 

By  Fancy  still  are  there, 
With  glowing  tints  unchanging 

Till  brought  to  upper  air; 
And  many  a  graceful  statue, 

In  marble  white  as  snow, 
Stands  fair  and  all  unbroken 

In  that  silent  "  long  ago." 
It«  is  not  dead,  but  living, 

My  glorious  buried  Past ! 
With  its  life  of  passionate  beauty, 

Its  joy  too  bright  to  last; 
But  living  under  the  lava  — 

For  the  pictures  fade  away, 
And  the  statues  crumble,  crumble 

When  brought  to  the  light  of  day. 
And  like  to  Dead-sea  apples 

Is  love's  ambrosia  now, 
And  the  lilies  wither,  wither, 

If  I  place  them  on  my  brow : 
And  so  I  keep  them  ever 

Far  down  in  the  depths  of  my  heart, 
Under  the  lava  and  ashes, 

Things  from  my  life  apart. 


GEIEF. 

"A  great  calamity  is  as  old  as  the  trilobites  an  hour  after  it  has  happened.  It  stains 
backward,  through  all  the  leaves  we  have  turned  over  in  the  book  of  life,  before  its  blot 
of  tears,  or  of  blood,  is  dry  on  the  page  we  are  turning."  —  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast 
Table. 

'Twas  such  a  grief — too  deep  for  tears  — 
Which  aged  my  heart  far  more  than  years ; 


840  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

How  old  it  seemed,  e'en  when  't  was  new, 
Backward  it  stained  life's  pages  through, 
And,  ere  another  leaf  I  turned, 
On  all  my  past  its  impress  burned. 
My  happy  clays  a  mock'ry  seemed  — 
I  had  not  lived,  hut  only  dreamed ; 
And  then,  when  first  I  wished  it  done, 
Life  seemed  to  me  hut  just  begun : 
Begun  in  bitter  unbelief 
That  Time  could  dull  the  edge  of  grief — 
Could  give  me  back  my  hope  and  faith, 
Or  bring  me  any  good  but  death. 
'Twas  but  a  moment;  yet  to  me 
It  seemed  a  whole  eternity! 
I  felt  how  gray  my  heart  had  grown ; 
Its  plastic  way  was  changed  to  stone 
When  Mis'ry  there  her  signet  set, 
Impressing  lines  which  linger  yet. 
In  each  fresh  leaf  of  life  I  find 
The  shadow  of  this  grief  behind ; 
For  though  the  page  at  first  appears 
Unsullied  by  the  mark  of  tears, 

/  They'll  blister  through  before  'tis  read: 

A  real  grief  is  never  dead  I 
Its  iron  finger,  stern  and  dark, 
Leaves  on  the  face  and  heart  its  mark, 
As  quickly  cut  —  as  plainly  told 
As  that  the  die  stamps  on  the  gold; 
Though  read  aright,  perchance,  alone 
By  those  who  kindred  grief  have  known  — 
Like  Masons'  signs,  which  seem  but  nought, 
Although  with  deepest  meaning  fraught. 
The  grief  which  kills  is  silent  grief; 
For  words,  like  tears,  will  bring  relief: 
Husband  and  wife  from  each  conceal 
The  wounds  which  are  too  deep  to  heal. 
But,  oh !  when  Hope  and  Faith  seem  dead, 
While  many  a  page  must  yet  be  read, 
And  in  despair  the  heart  doth  sigh 
And  wish  with  them  it  too  might  die, 
Remember  that  no  night's  so  dark 
But  we  can  see  some  little  spark, 
And  patient  wait  till  dawning  day 
Shall  its  red  line  of  light  display : 


MAEY  BAYARD  CLARKE.  841 

For  if  we  keep  our  love  alive, 

Our  hope  and  faith  will  both  revive. 

Thus,  as  life's  ladder  we  ascend, 

Our  hope  shall  in  fruition  end  — 

Our  faith  be  lost  in  sight  at  length  — 

Our  charity  increase  in  strength  ; 

And  grief,  which  stamps  the  heart  and  mind, 

But  coin  the  gold  Love  has  refined. 


LIFE'S  FIG-LEAVES. 

Life's  fig-leaves !    Tell  me,  are  not  they 

The  outside  beauties  of  our  way, 

The  pleasant  things  beneath  whose  shade 

Our  inner  —  spirit-life  —  is  laid? 

I  own  they  oft  give  promise  fair 

Of  fruit  which  never  ripens  there; 

For  though  we  seek  with  earnest  hope 

Some  tiny  bud  that  yet  may  ope, 

'Tis  all  in  vain  —  for  fruit  or  flower 

The  tree  has  not  sufficient  power. 

And  still  the  earnest  spirit  grieves, 

Which,  seeking  fruit,  finds  only  leaves. 

When  such  I  meet,  it  calls  to  mind 

The  Saviour's  warning  to  mankind: 

"  The  time  for  fruit  was  not  yet  nigh." 

Then  wherefore  must  the  fig-tree  die? 

Nature  demanded  leaves  alone; 

But  yet  He  said,  in  solemn  tone, 

"Let  no  more  fruit  upon  thee  grow," 

That  He  to  us  this  truth  might  show: 

All  life  for  some  good  end  is  given, 

And  should  bear  fruit  on  earth  for  heaven : 

Its  leaves  and  blossoms  go  for  nought, 

Unless  they  are  with  promise  fraught : 

No  buds  for  fruit  the  fig-tree  bore, 

Hence  it  was  blighted  evermore, 

And  unto  man  still  mutely  saith, 

A  barren  life  is  living  death. 

And  so  the  parable  should  teach 

That  soul  which  does  not  upward  reach. 


MARY  MASON. 

MRS.  MASON  is  the  wife  of  Rev.  Dr.  Mason,  of  Raleigh.  She  has 
written  several  books  for  children.  She  is  entirely  self-taught, 
and  her  works  are  remarkable  from  that  fact,  besides  possessing  con 
siderable  literary  merit.  She  cuts  cameos  and  moulds  faces ;  and,  for 
a  self-taught  artist,  her  "  likenesses "  are  excellent.  Had  she  made 
"sculpture"  a  study  from  early  youth,  we  warrant  that  the  name  of 
Mary  Mason  would  have  been  as  familiar  to  the  world  as  is  that  of 
"  Harriet  Hosmer." 

A  head  of  General  Lee,  cut  in  cameo,  is  said  to  be  exquisite. 

NOTE. — We  regret  the  briefness  of  our  notice  of  this  estimable  lady;  and  have  been 
unable,  although  striving  much,  to  obtain  copies  of  her  publications.  Yet  we  could  not 
forego  mention  of  her,  if  it  was  but  her  name,  for  she  is  one  of  the  representative 
"  Southland  writers"  of  the  Old  North  State. 


842 


CORNELIA  PHILLIPS   SPENCER. 

MRS.  SPENCER  is  a  daughter  of  Prof.  Phillips,  of  the  University, 
and  resides  at  Chapel  Hill,  North  Carolina.  She  contributed  a 
series  of  articles  to  the  "  Watchman,"  a  weekly  journal  published  in 
New  York,  in  1866,  by  Rev.  Dr.  Deems,  of  North  Carolina.  These 
articles  were  published  in  a  volume,  entitled  "The  Last  Ninety  Days 
of  the  War  in  North  Carolina."  This  volume  is  a,  narrative  of  events 
in  detail  of  the  war,  and  personal  sketches,  showing,  says  a  would-be 
facetious  reviewer,  "  how  the  people  of  the  Old  North  State  ate,  drank, 
and  were  clothed ;  and  telling  how  the  fowls  were  foully  appropriated 
by  vile  marauders."  The  last  chapter  of  the  book  is  devoted  to  a  his 
tory  of  the  University  of  North  Carolina. 

843 


FANNY  MURDAUGH  DOWNING. 

BY  H.   W.   HU8TED,   ESQ. 

HIGH  blood  runs  in  the  veins  of  this  gifted  lady,  and  she  came 
honestly  by  the  talents  for  which  she  is  so  eminently  distinguished. 
She  was  born  in  Portsmouth,  Virginia,  and  her  literary  life  commenced 
in  North  Carolina,  in  1863.  The  Old  North  State  awards  to  Virginia 
the  honor  of  her  birth,  but  cannot  waive  claim  to  her  literary  labors. 

She  is  the  daughter  of  the  late  Hon.  John  \V.  Murdaugh,  a  dis 
tinguished  name  in  the  Old  Dominion.  She  was  married,  in  1851, 
to  Charles  W.  Downing,  Esq.,  of  Florida,  and  at  that  time  its  Secretary 
of  State ;  and  she  is  blessed  in  four  bright  and  beautiful  children. 

Another  writer  has  said  of  her,  and  said  truly  :  "  Her  eyes  are  black," 
(they  are  large  and  lustrous  too,)  "  her  hair  of  a  magnificent,  glossy 
blackness,"  (and  a  glorious  flood  of  hair  it  is !  )  {;  her  carriage  stately, 
queen -like,  and  graceful,  and  in  conversational  powers  she  has  few 
equals." 

Her  health  is  extremely  delicate,  but  her  spirits  are  always  bright, 
and  her  heart  brave  and  buoyant. 

Many  of  her  works  are  composed  while  too  weak  to  leave  her  bed  ; 
and  a  jolly  comedy  of  three  acts,  called  "  Nobody  Hurt,"  was  thus 
dashed  off  in  ten  hours.  Daniel  Webster  has  been  called  "  a  steam- 
engine  in  breeches ; "  but  Daniel  was  a  man,  almost  as  strong  in 
body  as  he  was  in  mind.  Mrs.  Downing,  fragile  as  she  is,  has  per 
formed  an  amount  of  intellectual  literary  labor  which  may  well  entitle 
her  to  be  saluted  as  (with  reverence  be  it  spoken)  a  steam-engine  in 
crinoline.  When  she  began  to  write  for  the  public,  which  she  did  with 
the  nom  de  plume  of  "  Viola,"  she  announced  her  intention  in  a  letter 
to  a  friend  in  these  words : 

"  I  shall  write  first  to  see  if  I  can  write;  then  for  money,  and  then 
for  fame ! " 

She  has  proved  to  the  perfect  satisfaction  of  the  court  and  jury  by 
which  her  merits  were  tried  that  she  "  can  write,"  and  write  well. 
At  present,  she  says,  she  is  in  the  second  stage  of  her  programme ; 
and,  in  catering  to  the  general  public  taste,  is  compelled  to  bow  to  its 

844 


FANNY    MUKDAUGH    DOWNING.  845 

decrees,  in  instances  where  her  purer  Southern  taste  would  suggest  a 
far  different  and  less  sentimental  style. 

One  of  these  days,  we  trust  the  land  we  love  will  be  able  to  fos 
ter,  cherish,  and  pay  for  a  literature  of  its  own,  and  then  our  authors 
may  write  at  the  same  time  for  money  and  fame.  This  one  of  them, 
in  yielding  to  stern  necessity  and  writing  for  money,  has  also  achieved 
ample  fame. 

Mrs.  Downing's  first  publication  was  a  poem  entitled  "  Folia  Au- 
tumni,"  and  its  success  was  so  great  that  it  was  rapidly  followed  by 
numerous  other  poetical  effusions,  most  of  which  have  a  religious  tinge, 
and  seem  the  breathings  of  a  subdued  and  pure  spirit.  They  are  all 
remarkable  for  musical  rhythm,  and  the  easy  and  graceful  flow  of  feel 
ings  which  can  never  be  spoken  so  well  as  in  the  language  of  song. 

Among  the  best  of  these  are  her  "  Egomet  Ipse,"  a  terrible  heart- 
searcher  ;  "  Faithful  unto  Death,"  full  of  a  wild  and  nameless  pathos ; 
and  "  Desolate,"  which  is  not  exceeded  by  any  elegiac  poem  in  the 
language.  As  a  specimen  of  her  minor  poems,  we  select 

SUNSET   MUSINGS. 

Love  of  mine,  the  day  is  done  — 
All  the  long,  hot  summer  day ; 
In  the  west,  the  golden  sun 
Sinks  in  purple  clouds  away; 
Nature  rests  in  soft  repose, 
Not  a  zephyr  rocks  the  rose, 
Not  a  ripple  on  the  tide, 
And  the  little  boats,  that  glide 
Lazily  along  the  stream, 
Flit  like  shadows  in  a  dream. 
Not  one  drooping  leaf  is  stirred; 
Bee,  and  butterfly,  and  bird 
Silence  keep.     Above,  around 
Hangs  a  stillness  so  profound, 
That  the  spirit,  awe-struck,  shrinks, 
As  of  Eden  days  it  thinks, 
Half  expectant  here  to  see 
The  descending  Deity ! 

Love  of  mine,  when  life's  fierce  sun 

To  its  final  setting  goes, 
Its  terrestrial  journey  run, 

Varied  course  of  joys  and  woes, 


846  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

May  there  come  a  quiet  calm, 
Bringing  on  its  wings  a  balm 
'I'u  our  hearts,  which  aching  feel 
''Sorrow    hrre  has  set  its  seal!" 
May  a  stillness  soft  as  this 
Soothe  our  souls  in  purest  bliss, 
Till  the  worry  and  the  strife 
Of  this  fever  we  call  life, 
"With  its  pain  and  passion  cease, 
And  we  rest  in  perfect  peace. 
Love  of  mine,  may  we  behold 
Eden's  visitant  of  old, 
When  our  last  breath  dies  away, 
By  us  at  the  close  of  day! 

These  poems  were  followed  by  "  Nameless,"  a  novel  of  merit,  filled 
with  sprightly  descriptions  and  delineations  of  character,  but  which 
was,  from  some  unexplained  reason,  too  suddenly  crowded  to  a  close, 
before  its  plot  could  be  evolved  and  completed.  It  is  said  to  have  been 
hastily  written  in  ten  days,  as  a  proof  whether  or  not  she  could  write 
prose.  She  had  already  written  good  poetry  which  was  appreciated 
and  applauded,  and  her  next  venture  was  in  prose  fiction.  "  Tentanda 
via  est,"  quoth  Mrs.  Downing,  and  spread  her  trial  wings.  This  trial 
proved  the  existence  of  high  power,  which  has  since  been  wonderfully 
improved,  developed,  and  matured  in  her  excellent  novels,  "  Perfect 
through  Suffering"  and  "Florida."  Then  came  a  series  of  poems  of  a 
sterner  sort,  which  were  deemed  by  some  to  be  just  a  trifle  rebellious, 
but  which  found  a  responsive  feeling  deep  in  the  hearts  of  thousands 
of  true  men,  who  are  not  willing  to  wear  chains  without  giving  them 
an  occasional  shake.  Of  this  style  are  "  Confederate  Gray,"  "  Holly 
and  Cypress,"  "Prometheus  Vinctus,"  "Memorial  Flowers,"  "Our 
President,"  "  Two  Years  Ago,"  "  Sic  Semper  Tyrannis,"  a  majestic 
lyric,  which  thrills  each  Virginian  heart  to  the  core,  and  glorious  little 
"  Dixie,"  which  stirs  to  its  fountains  every  Southern  soul,  and  teaches  it 

"To  live  for  Dixie!     Harder  part! 
To  stay  the  hand — to  still  the  heart  — 
To  seal  the  lips,  enshroud  the  past  — 
To  have  no  future  —  all  o'ercast  — 
To  knit  life's  broken  threads  again, 
And  keep  her  mem'ry  pure  from  stain  — 
This  is  to  live  for  Dixie ! " 


FANNY    MURDAUGH    DOWNING.  847 

As   Mrs.   Downing   is  a  daughter  of  Virginia,  we  give  her  "Sic 
Semper  "  in  full : 

SIC  SEMPER  TYEANNIS. 

They  have  torn  off  the  crown  from  her  beautiful  brow, 
Yet  she  never  seemed  half  so  majestic  as  now, 
When  she  stands  in  the  strength  of  her  sorrow  sublime, 
As  she  ever  stood,  noblest  and  best  of  her  time ! 

They  have  wiped  from  the  roll  of  their  country  her  name, 
Coexistent  with  glory,  coequal  with  fame ; 
On  the  record  of  Time  it  will  grandly  endure 
As  unchangeably  bright  as  her  honor  is  pure  ! 

They  have  stolen  her  crest,  which  for  ages  has  blazed, 
And  the  motto  she  loves  from  its  surface  erased  ; 
But  vain  is  their  malice,  and  futile  their  art, 
For  the  seal  of  Virginia  is  stamped  on  the  heart ! 

Sic  SEMPER  TYRANXIS  !    We  whisper  it  low, 
While  the  hearts  in  our  bosoms  exultingly  glow, 
As  we  think  of  the  time,  in  its  sure-coming  course, 
We  will  prove  it  by  deeds  with  a  terrible  force. 

Not  the  we  of  this  age!     WE  shall  pass  from  our  pain 
Ere  the  bonds  of  Virginia  are  sundered  in  twain  ; 
Yet  the  day  when  her  children  will  free  her  shall  dawn 
Just  as  surely  as  earth  in  her  orbit  rolls  on  I 

On  her  regal  white  shoulders  they  press  down  their  yoke, 

But  her  mind  is  unfettered,  her  spirit  unbroke ; 

A  woman  sore  weakened,  her  form  they  control, 

But  the  points  of  their  arrows  turn  blunt  from  her  soul ! 

Like  vultures  they  swoop  in  a  clamorous  swarm, 
And  their  talons  imprint  in  her  delicate  form ; 
Her  treasures  they  covet,  yet  blacken  and  blot 
While  parting  her  garments  and  casting  the  lot ! 

As  the  Jews  loved  the  Romans  that  horrible  night 
When  the  Shechinah  took  from  the  Temple  its  flight, 
As  the  Pole  loves  the  Cossack,  and  Greeks  love  the  Turk, 
We  Virginians  love  those  who  have  compassed  this  work  I 


848  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Yes,  we  love  them  —  as  Anthony,  righteous  in  wrath, 
Loved  Brutus  tin1  murderer  polluting  his  path, 
When  in  liray.cn  disgrace  he  defiantly  stood, 
His  hands  redly  reeking  with  Ca-sar's  warm  blood! 

Yes,  we  love  them  —  as  Rachel,  whose  baby  lay  dead, 
Its  body  apart  from  its  innocent  head, 
Btuug  to  madness  by  pain,  and  infuriate  with  hate, 
In  the  depth  of  her  anguish,  loved  Herod  the  Great ! 

Though  our  faces  must  wear  in  their  presence  no  frown, 
In  our  souls  we  despise  them  and  trample  them  down; 
To  Virginia  in  chains,  we  exultingly  cling, 
While  we  spurn  them  away  as  a  leperous  thing ! 

Not  the  wrath  of  a  clay,  nor  a  season,  is  ours  ; 
At  the  white  heat  of  passion  it  ceaselessly  towers; 
We  will  keep  it  aglow,  and  its  red  sparks  shall  run 
Through  the  veins  of  Virginians  from  mother  to  son  ! 

For  Virginia  has  daughters  who  stand  at  her  side 
And  her  spoilers  in  dignified  silence  deride ; 
While  serene  in  their  strength,  every  feeling  controlled, 
Into  heroes  the  men  of  the  future  they  mould ! 

'Tis  true  they  are  infants  now  hushed  on  the  breast, 
But  we  teach  them  a  lesson  no  tyrant  shall  wrest ; 
Sic  SEMPER  TYRANNIS  we  sow  with  their  prayers  — 
They  will  reap  with  rejoicing  the  harvest  it  bears  ' 

To  Virginia  now  prostrate  the  cross  and  the  sword, 
But  her  future  is  fair  in  the  hand  of  the  Lord : 
When  His  vengeance  sweeps  down  in  a  fiery  tide, 
She  shall  shine  as  the  gold  that  is  seven  times  tried  ! 

From  God's  own  chosen  people  His  arm  was  removed, 
While  through  Palestine  Sisera  raged  unreproved, 
Till  the  work  which  the  Lord  had  appointed  was  wrought, 
When  the  stars  in  their  courses  for  Deborah  fought ! 

Thou  mother  in  Israel,  Virginia,  shalt  wake, 

And  thy  bands  of  captivity  captive  shalt  take ; 

At  thy  feet  they  shall  bow,  they  shall  crouch,  they  shall  crawl 

With  Sic  SEMPER  TYRANNIS  thou  'It  trample  them  all ! 


FANNY    MURDAUGH    DOWNING.  849 

They  humble  Virginia  !   As  well  may  they  try 
To  sully  the  stars  on  heaven's  battlements  high ! 
When  they  crumble  to  nothing,  VIRGINIA  shall  shine 
^Eternal,  immutable,  glorious,  divine ! 

In  very  playfulness,  and  as  if  to  show  her  great  diversity  of  talent 
and  her  surprising  power  of  writing  by  antagonism  instead  of  sympa 
thy,  and  conceiving  what  could  have  only  existed  with  her  by  the  aid 
of  a  most  lively  and  exuberant  fancy,  she  has  written  some  of  the 
most  musical  and  genial  poems  of  love  and  wine  since  the  grapestone 
choked  the  old  Teian  bard. 

It  may  be  said  of  her  as  of  the  celebrated  French  authoress,  that 
she  "  writes  by  her  imagination,  and  lives  by  her  judgment."  In 
truth,  she  seems  to  rejoice  in  a  sort  of  "double  life"  of  her  own,  and 
to  sport  ad  lib.  in  whichever  she  pleases.  One  is  the  life  common  to 
us  all ;  the  other,  such  as  poetical  fancy  alone  can  build  up  and  people 
with  its  own  bright  and  beautiful  creations,  and  which  she  has  de 
scribed  in  her  poem,  "  The  Realm  of  Enchantment." 


MEMORIAL  FLOWERS. 

The  Lord  of  light,  who  rules  the  hours, 
Has  scattered  through  our  sunny  land 

Mementos  of  His  love  in  flowers 
With  lavish  hand. 

This  month  they  bloom  in  beauty  rare, 
And  more  than  wonted  sweets  display, 

As  conscious  of  the  part  they  bear 
The  Tenth  of  May  : 

On  which  the  South  in  plaintive  tone, 
Of  pride  and  sorrow  mixed  with  bliss, 

Speaks:  "As  a  nation,  I  can  own 
No  day  but  this ! 

"  I  give,  on  it,  my  glorious  dead 

The  tribute  they  have  earned  so  well, 
And  with  each  bud  and  blossom  shed 
A  mystic  spell. 

22 


850  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

"I  lay  the  laurel-wreath  above 

The  cedar  with  its  sacred  ties, 
And  place  them  with  a  mother's  love 
Where  JACKSON  lies. 

"  The  lily,  in  its  loveliness, 

Pure  as  the  stream  where  it  awoke, 
And  spotless  as  his  bishop's  dress, 
I  give  to  POLK. 

"  To  Albert  Sidney  Johnson,  moss, 

And  rosemary,  and  balm ;  to  these, 
Entwisted  in  a  simple  cross, 
I  add  heart's-ease. 

"  The  fleur  de  lis,  in  song  and  lay 

The  emblem  of  true  knighthood's  pride, 
I  place,  commixed  with  jessamine  spray, 
By  Ashby's  side. 

"  Fresh  morning-glory  buds  I  twine, 

With  scarlet  woodbine  laid  beneath, 
And  mingle  with  them  eglantine 
For  Pelham's  wreath. 

"  The  honeysuckle's  rosy  drift, 

Whence  fragrance-dripping  dews  distil, 
I  offer  as  the  proper  gift 
For  Ambrose  Hill. 

"O'er  Bender's  pure  and  sacred  dust 

Let  bleeding-hearts  and  bays  be  swept; 
He  well  deserved  his  country's  trust, 
So  nobly  kept ! 

"Let  Ramseur's  native  pines  drop  down 

Their  leaves  and  odorous  gums,  displayed 
To  form  with  ivy-flowers  a  down, 
Where  he  lies  dead : 

"  While  orange-blossoms  fall  like  snow, 
To  fill  the  air  with  fragrance  ripe, 
And  form  of  MAXCY  GREGG,  below, 
The  truest  type. 


FANNY    MURDAUGH    DOWNING.  851 

"Where  Doles  and  Bartow  rest  in  death, 

Strew  hyacinths  and  mignonette, 
And  scatter,  with  its  balmy  breath, 
The  violet. 

"  The  fairest  of  the  radiant  dyes 

Which  paint  in  living  gems  her  sward, 
The  Land  of  Flowers  well  supplies 
To  honor  Ward. 

"The  grand  magnolia's  blossoms  fall, 

Mingling  with  fern  their  snowy  loads, 
And  form  a  freshly  fragrant  pall 
To  cover  Rhodes. 

"  Let  stars  of  Bethlehem  gleaming  lie 

As  pure  as  Barksdale's  soul,  which  soars 
While  he  exclaims :  '  I  GLADLY  DIE 
IN  SUCH  A  CAUSE!' 

"  GRANBURY  rests  in  dreamless  sleep  ; 

And,  heaped  upon  his  grave's  green  sod, 
I  let  the  crimson  cactus  creep 
Eound  golden-rod. 

"  Of  Zollicoffer,  who  went  first 

To  plead  my  cause  at  heaven's  bar, 
The  am'ranth's  buds,  to  glory  burst, 
Fit  emblems  are. 

"For  Morgan  let  the  wildwood  grape 

Afford  a  dewy  diadem, 
And  with  its  drooping  tendrils  drape 
The  buckeye's  stem. 

"Missouri,  from  the  fertile  fields 

Washed  by  her  giant  river's  wave, 
The  gorgeous  rhododendron  yields 
McCulloch's  grave. 

"Around  the  stone  with  Cleburne's  name 

Wreathe  daisies  and  the  golden-bell, 
And  trumpet-flowers  with  hearts  of  flame, 
And  asphodel. 


852  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 


"For  him  who  made  all  hearts  his  own 

The  sweetest  rose  of  love  shall  bloom, 
In  buds  of  blushing  beauty  strown 
On  Stuart's  tomb. 

"Each  nameless  nook  and  scattered  spot 

Which  hides  my  children  from  my  view 
I  mark  with  the  forget-me-not, 
In  heaven's  own  blue. 

"  Of  all  the  varied  vernal  race 

I  give  my  cherished  dead  a  part, 
Except  the  cypress :  that  I  place 
Upon  MY  heart." 


MRS.  MARY  AYER  MILLER, 

(Luola.) 

THE  subject  of  this  sketch  was  born  in  Fayetteville,  North  Carolina, 
but  on  the  death  of  her  father,  General  Henry  Ayer,  removed 
with  her  mother,  when  only  eight  years  old,  to  Lexington,  North 
Carolina,  for  the  purpqse  of  being  educated  by  her  uncle,  the  Rev. 
Jesse  Rankin,  a  divine  of  the  Presbyterian  Church,  who  had  a  clas 
sical  school  at  that  place. 

She  received  the  same  education  given  to  the  boys  of  her  uncle's 
school,  which  was  preparatory  for  the  University  of  North  Carolina, 
and  began  as  early  as  her  fourteenth  year  to  show  signs  of  the  poetic 
talent  which  she  has  since  cultivated  with  success.  She  married 
early  a  young  lawyer,  Mr.  Willis  M.  Miller,  who  gave  promise  of 
making  a  reputation  at  the  Bar,  but  abandoned  his  profession  about 
a  year  after  his  marriage,  and  commenced  studying  for  the  Pres 
byterian  ministry.  This  change  in  the  plan  of  his  life,  after  taking 
on  himself  the  cares  of  a  family,  involved  a  change  in  his  style  of 
living,  which  drew  his  wife  almost  entirely  from  literary  to  domestic 
pursuits,  as  his  salary,  after  being  licensed  to  preach,  was  too  small 
to  allow  much  leisure  to  the  mother  of  his. rapidly  increasing  family. 
Consequently,  her  pen  was  laid  aside  for  the  needle  just  when  her 
poems,  under  the  signature  of  "  Luola,"  were  beginning  to  attract 
attention  by  the  smoothness  of  their  flow  and  the  purity  and  tender 
ness  of  their  sentiment.  But  the  spirit  of  song  was  latent  in  her  heart, 
and  burst  forth,  from  time  to  time,  in  little  gushes,  which  kept  her 
memory  alive  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  had  already  begun  to  appre 
ciate  her  poetry.  In  a  letter  to  a  friend,  she  says :  "  I  have  never 
made  the  slightest  effort  for  popularity,  but  set  my  little  songs  afloat 
as  children  do  their  paper  boats :  if  they  had  sail  and  ballast  enough, 
to  float ;  if  not,  to  sink." 

Some  have  sunk ;  for,  like  most  women  who  write  con  amore,  and 
not  for  publication,  she  does  not  always  give  her  poems  the  after  crit 
ical  supervision  of  the  scholar,  but  is  content  to  throw  them  off  with 
the  easy  rapidity  of  the  poet. 


864  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

But  many  of  them  show  the  fire  of  genius ;  and,  like  the  love-boats 
of  the  Hindoo  girls  on  the  Ganges,  cast  a  light  on  the  waters  as  they 
float  down  the  stream  of  Time,  and  all  are  distinguished  by  some 
grace  which  touches  the  heart,  or  pleases  the  fancy  for  the  moment. 

As  a  writer  for  children,  Mrs.  Miller  has  been  very  successful.  The 
Presbyterian  Board  of  Publication  has  issued  several  of  her  works  as 
Sunday-school  books ;  and  her  poems  in  the  youth's  department  of  the 
"North  Carolina  Presbyterian,"  and  the  "Central  Presbyterian,"  pub 
lished  in  Richmond,  Virginia,  have  rendered  her  a  favorite  among  the 
little  ones,  who  have  as  keen  an  appreciation  of  what  is  suited  to  their 
taste  and  capacity  as  older  readers  have  of  what  pleases  them ;  and 
such  happy  conceits  as  that  of  "  Linda  Lee  "  speak  directly,  not  only 
to  their  fancy,  but  also  to  their  hearts. 

Mrs.  Miller  resides  at  present  in  Charlotte,  North  Carolina,  writing 
occasionally  for  publication,  but  as  often  carrying  her  poems  for  days 
in  her  memory,  until  she  can  steal  time  from  the  duties  and  cares  of  a 
wife  and  mother  to  commit  them  to  paper. 

A  few  of  her  poems  are  preserved  in  "  Wood  Notes,"  a  collection  of 
North  Carolina  poetry  made  by  Mrs.  Mary  Bayard  Clarke,  and  pub 
lished  in  1854 ;  but  most  of  them  have  appeared  only  in  the  news 
papers. 


MRS.  SUSAN  J.  HANCOCK. 

SUSAN  J.  HANCOCK  was  born  in  Newbern,  North  Carolina,  in 
the  year  1819.  Her  maiden  name  was  Blaney.  Her  paternal 
grandfather  belonged  to  the  Irish  nobility,  and  her  maternal  ancestor 
was  of  France,  while  both  grandmothers  were  Americans.  So  the 
eagle  of  America,  with  the  rose  of  France  entwined  with  the  shamrock 
of  Ireland,  would  have  been  a  fit  emblem  for  their  escutcheon,  had 
they  needed  one.  But  the  ancestors  of  the  subject  of  this  sketch 
thought  little  of  the  nobility  of  their  ancestry.  To  be  good  and  vir 
tuous  was  their  aim  ;  content  to  live  respected  and  die  regretted.  At 
the  time  of  the  birth  of  Mrs.  Hancock,  her  father  was  a  prosperous 
merchant  in  the  town  of  Newbern,  and  she  seemed  born  to  prosperity  ; 
but  reverses  came,  and  the  family  were  reduced  from  affluence.  Mr. 
Blaney  was  enabled  to  give  all  of  his  children  a  fair  education. 

Susan  was  always  of  a  romantic  turn,  and  from  early  years  exceed 
ingly  fond  of  poetry.  Before  she  ever  published  a  line,  she  was  in  her 
thirty-fifth  year.  And  encouraged  by  the  commendation  bestowed 
upon  her  verses,  she  contributed  to  various  Southern  periodicals. 
Nearly  all  of  Mrs.  Hancock's  poems  are  impromptu  —  really  but  the 
expression  of  a  full  heart;  written  more  to  give  vent  to  feelings  of  joy, 
adoration,  or  sorrow,  than  for  any  other  purpose;  and  published,  not 
for  the  sake  of  fame,  but  in  the  faint  hope  that  others,  tried  and  sor 
rowing  as  she  was,  might  perchance  find  consolation,  strength,  and 
comfort  in  their  perusal. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  war,  Mrs.  Hancock  resided  in  New 
bern,  a  Southern  town  noted  for  the  beauty  of  its  situation,  the  hos 
pitality  and  refinement  of  its  inhabitants,  and  often  termed  the  "Athens 
of  the  South."  Newbern  was  one  of  the  first  cities  on  the  coast  to  fall 
into  the  possession  of  Federal  troops.  And  need  we  draw  a  picture 
of  this  captured  town?  Mrs.  Hancock,  after  being  refused  permission 
to  "  cross  the  lines  "  by  General  Burnside,  was,  when  General  Foster 
succeeded  the  former  in  command  of  Newbern,  sent  beyond  the  lines. 
Eighty-one  persons,  including  helpless  age  and  weeping  infants,  were 
sent  out  with  one  week's  provision,  and  placed  between  the  two 

855 


856  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

picket  lines.  Here  they  remained  until  negotiations  could  be  con 
summated  for  their  removal  to  "  Dixie."  She  remained  here  uutil 
the  close  of  the  war.  Her  son  James  fell  in  battle  near  Richmond. 
He  was  a  member  of  the  2d  North  Carolina  Regiment,  commanded 
by  the  lamented  "Tew,"  and  subsequently  by  the  gallant  "Ramseur." 

After  the  "  surrender,"  Mrs.  Hancock  returned  to  her  old  home, 
where  she  remained  until  June,  1868,  when  she  removed  to  St.  Paul, 
Minnesota.  She  says :  "  If  anything  could  make  me  forget  my  un 
happy  past  and  my  beautiful  Southern  land,  beautiful  even  in  her 
desolation,  it  would  be  the  warm-hearted  kindness  with  which  I  have 
been  welcomed  in  my  new  Western  home." 

The  following  verses  are  from  a  volume  Mrs.  Hancock  has  prepared 
for  publication : 

LITTLE  CHILDREN. 

Little  wild-flowers,  gayly  springing 

Ail  along  the  path  of  life, 
How  refreshing  to  the  aged 

Are  your  forms,  so  full  of  life! 

What  is  all  the  labored  wisdom 

Musty  volumes  can  impart, 
Compared  with  all  the  holy  lessons 

Found  within  your  guileless  heart? 

Tell  me  not  of  storied  grandeur ! 

Talk  not  of  Italia's  lore ! 
Nor  of  vines  and  gorgeous  flowers 

Found  on  ancient  Beulah's  shore. 

Lovelier  far  the  human  blossoms 

Springing  round  the  household  hearth ; 

Sweeter  is  the  ringing  music 

Of  their  heartfelt,  guileless  mirth. 

When  the  heart  is  bowed  with  sadness, 
When  the  world  looks  dark  and  drear, 

How  reviving  fells  their  laughter 
On  the  dull  and  wearied  ear! 

Wonder  not  some  wither  early, 
Fading  ere  the  wintry  day ; 


SUSAN    J.    HANCOCK.  857 

They  are  by  far  too  pure  and  holy 
On  this  sin-struck  earth  to  stay. 

Therefore  are  they  early  taken 

To  the  garden  of  the  blest, 
Forever  round  God's  throne  to  blossom, 

And  bloom  upon  the  Saviour's  breast. 


GOD'S  LOVE. 

How  boundless  is  the  love  of  God ! 

How  rich,  and  yet  how  free! 
It  girdles  earth  and  spans  the  skies, 

And  fills  immensity. 

It  buds  in  every  blooming  shower, 

And  rustles  in  each  breeze, 
And  falls  in  every  liquid  flower, 

And  waves  among  the  trees. 

It  shines  in  every  sunlit  ray 

That  falls  aslant  our  path, 
And  glistens  in  each  drop  of  dew 

On  ev'ry  blade  of  grass. 

We  scent  it  in  the  varied  sweets 
From  woodland  flowerets  borne, 

And  view  it  in  the  whitening  wheat, 
And  in  the  tasselling  corn. 

It  sparkles  in  the  gems  and  gold 

That  deck  the  kingly  hall, 
And  blushes  in  the  modest  rose 

That  climbs  the  cottage  wall. 

It  flashes  on  us  in  our  walks 
From  childhood's  laughing  eye, 

And  smiles  upon  us  in  the  dreams 
Of  sleeping  infancy. 

'Twas  love  that  to  the  rugged  hills 
Their  mantling  green  has  given, 

And  formed  the  fleecy  clouds  that  float 
Like  aerial  ships  'mid  heaven. 


858  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

It  was  this  love  bespangled  heaven 
And  lit  pale  Luna's  ray, 

And  drew  the  curtain  of  the  night 
To  veil  the  cares  of  day. 

But  oh !  His  love  more  brightly  beams 
From  Bethlehem's  manger  low, 

And  from  the  blood-besprinkled  cross 
That  decks  bold  Calvary's  brow. 

His  love  has  made  the  desert  smile, 
And  clothed  this  world  in  bloom, 

And  thrown  a  ray  of  glory  o'er 
The  portals  of  the  tomb. 


SOUTH  CAROLINA. 


859 


SUE  PETIGRU  KING. 


RS.  S.  P.  KING  has  been  complimented  by  being  called  the 
"  female  Thackeray  of  America."  She  is  a  native  of  South 
Carolina  —  a  daughter  of  the  late  Hon.  James  L.  Petigru, 
a  prominent  lawyer  of  Charleston.  She  was  early  married 
to  Mr.  Henry  King,  a  lawyer,  and  son  of  Judge  Mitchell  King,  of 
Charleston.  Her  husband  lost  his  life  in  defence  of  his  native  city 
during  the  late  war. 

Mrs.  King's  first  book  was  "  Busy  Moments  of  an  Idle  Woman," 
this  was  followed  by  "  Lily."  The  former  was  successful,  and  both 
were  pictures  of  society.  She  collected  a  series  of  tales  she  had  writ 
ten  for  "  Russell's  Magazine,"  called  "  Crimes  that  the  Law  does  not 
Reach,"  to  which  she  added  a  longer  story,  "  The  Heart  History  of  a 
Heartless  Woman,"  published  originally  in  the  "Knickerbocker  Maga 
zine,"  and,  under  the  title  of  "  Sylvia's  World,"  it  was  published  by 
Derby  &  Jackson,  New  York,  (1860.)  This  was  the  most  popular  of 
Mrs.  King's  books,  although  her  last  work,  published  during  the  war 
in  the  "  Southern  Field  and  Fireside,"  and  afterward  in  pamphlet 
form,  entitled  "  Gerald  Gray's  Wife,"  is  her  chef-d'oeuvre.  The  char 
acters  in  this  novel  are  real  people,  breathing  Charleston  air,  and  were 
immediately  recognized  by  the  elite  in  Charleston  society.  We  know 
of  no  book  or  writer  that  we  can  compare  Mrs.  King  to.  She  is  highly 
original,  witty,  satirical,  and  deeply  interesting.  Her  writings  are  all 
pictures  of  society.  It  is  said  that  her  "Heartless  Woman  of  the 
World  "  is  herself.  In  society,  Mrs.  King  was  always  surrounded  by 
a  group,  who  listened  with  interest  to  her  brilliant  flow  of  conversation. 
She  could  talk  for  hours  without  tiring  her  hearers  with  her  sparkling 
scintillations.  Repartee,  as  may  be  imagined  from  her  books,  is  her 
forte.  When  William  Makepeace  Thackeray  lectured  in  this  country, 
and  met  Mrs.  King,  he  said  to  her  in  a  brusque  manner:  "Mrs.  King, 
I  am  agreeably  disappointed  in  you ;  I  heard  you  were  the  fastest 

861 


SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

woman  in  America,  and  I  detest  fast  women."  She  replied:  "And  I 
am  agreeably  surprised  in  you,  Mr.  Thackeray ;  for  I  heard  you  were 
no  gentleman." 

Mrs.  King  is  below  the  medium  height,  fair;  brilliant,  variable  eyes, 
black  and  gray  and  blue  in  turn;  hair  dark,  and  worn  banded  across 
a  brow  like  her  father's,  high  and  broad,  rarely  seen  in  a  woman ;  lips 
never  at  rest,  showing  superbly  white  teeth  ;  hands  and  feet  perfect; 
arms,  bust,  and  shoulders  polished  ivory,  and  yet  withal  not  beautiful 
as  a  whole;  slightly  lisping  accent;  and  dress  so  artistic  and  ultra- 
la.-liionable  that  nature  seemed  buried  in  flowers. 

Mrs.  King  despises  foolish  sentimentalism,  and  shows  up  human 
vice  in  all  of  her  books.  All  of  her  characters  are  true  to  nature. 
Bertha  St.  Clair,  who  is  one  of  the  dramatis  personce  in  "  Sylvia's 
World,"  and  also  in  "Gerald  Gray's  Wife,"  is  an  exquisite  portraiture. 
In  the  latter  the  characters  are,  as  we  have  mentioned,  from  life — the 
false  Gerald  Gray  still  breathes  the  air  of  Charleston.  That  piece  of 
insipidity,  or  "skim-milk,  soft  Cissy  Clare,"  is  strikingly  true  to  nature, 
as  are  pompous  Mr.  Clare,  sturdy  old  Jacob  Desborough,  scheming 
Phillis,  and  the  gallant  Josselyn. 

The  transforming  power  of  love,  as  displayed  in  the  metamorphosis 
of  plain  Ruth  Desborough  to  beautiful  Ruth  Grey,  is  very  charmingly 
wrought  out. 

Mrs.  King  has  published  nothing  since  the  close  of  the  war ;  but 
shortly  after  the  downfall  of  the  Confederacy,  she  gave  dramatic  read 
ings  in  various  parts  of  the  North,  and  is,  we  believe,  now  residing  in 
Washington  City. 

A  LOVERS'  QUARREL. 

There  was  not  a  more  beautiful  avenue  of  trees  in  all  the  world  than  that 
which  led  to  the  front  entrance  of  Oaklevel.  They  were  very  old  —  they 
met  overhead,  and  enlaced  themselves  with  wreaths  of  moss ;  the  sunlight 
came  flickering  through  the  branches,  and  fell  stealthily  and  tremblingly 
upon  the  clean,  smooth  ground ;  little  heaps  of  drad  leaves  lay  here  and 
there,  scattered  by  each  breath  of  the  December  breeze,  and  forming  their 
tiny  mounds  in  fresh  places  as  the  wind  trundled  them  along. 

On  a  fine,  bright  morning,  some  years  since,  two  persons  were  slowly  pacing 
up  and  down  this  grand,  majestic  walk.  They  were  both  young,  and  both 
were  handsome.  She  was  blonde,  and  he  a  dark,  grave-looking  man. 

"  Nelly,  I  don't  like  flirts." 

"  Yes,  you  do  —  you  like  me,  don't  you? " 

"  I  don't  like  flirting." 


SUE    PETIGRU    KING.  863 

"  What  do  you  call  flirting  ?  If  I  am  to  be  serious,  and  answer  your  ques 
tions,  and  admit  your  reproofs  and  heed  them,  pray  begin  by  answering  me 
a  little.  Where  and  when  do  I  flirt?  " 

"Everywhere,  and  at  all  times." 

"  Be  more  particular,  if  you  please.     Name,  sir,  name ! " 

"  I  am  not  jesting,  Nelly.  Yesterday,  at  that  picnic,  you  talked  in  a 
whisper  to  John  Ford,  you  wore  Ned  Laurens's  flowers  stuck  in  your  belt- 
ribbou,  you  danced  two  waltzes  with  that  idiot,  Percy  Forest,  and  you 
sat  for  a  full  hour  tSfe  a  tete  with  Walter  James,  and  then  rode  home  with 

him.     I  wish  he  had  broken  his  neck, him  1 "  and  a  low- muttered  curse 

ended  the  catalogue. 

"  If  he  had  broken  his  neck,  very  probably  he  would  have  cracked  mine;  so, 
thank  you ;  and  please,  Harry,  don't  swear :  it  is  such  an  ungentlemanly 
habit,  I  wonder  that  you  should  have  it.  And  now  for  the  list  of  my  errors 
and  crimes.  The  mysterious  whisper  to  John  Ford  was  to  ask  him  if  he 
would  not  invite  Miss  Ellis  to  dance ;  I  had  noticed  that  no  one  had  yet 
done  so.  You  gave  me  no  flowers,  although  your  sister's  garden  is  full  of 
them  this  week ;  so  I  very  naturally  wore  Ned  Laurens's  galanterie,  in  the 
shape  of  half  a  dozen  rosebuds.  Percy  Forest  may  be  a  goose,  but  he 
waltzes,  certainly,  with  clever  feet;  one  of  those  waltzes  I  had  offered  early 
in  the  day  to  you,  and  you  said  you  preferred  a  polka.  Walter  James  is  an 
old  friend  of  mine,  and,  for  the  matter  of  that,  of  yours  too.  We  talked  very 
soberly :  I  think  that  his  most  desperate  speech  was  the  original  discovery 
that  I  have  pretty  blonde  ringlets,  and  when  he  falls  in  love,  it  shall  be  with 
a  woman  who  has  curls  like  mine.  You  best  know  whether  papa  allows  me 
to  drive  with  you  since  our  accident :  my  choice  lay  between  a  stuffy,  stupid 
carriage,  full  of  dull  people,  and  a  nice,  breezy  drive  in  an  open  wagon,  with 
a  good,  jolly  creature  like  Walter,  whom  you  and  I  know  to  be,  despite  his 
compliments  to  my  Eve-like  coloring,  eperdument  amoureaux  of  Mary  Turner's 
dark  beauty.  Now,  Harry,  have  you  not  been  unreasonable?  " 
•  "  How  can  I  help  being  so,  Nelly,  darling,  when  I  am  kept  in  this  state  of 
misery?"  answered  Harry,  whose  frowning  brow  had  gradually  smoothed 
itself  into  a  more  placable  expression.  "  What  man  on  earth  could  patiently 
endure  seeing  the  woman  he  adores  free  to  be  sought  by  every  one  —  feeling 
himself  bound  to  her,  body  and  soul,  and  yet  not  being  able  to  claim  her  in 
the  slightest  way  —  made  to  pass  his  life  in  solitary  wretchedness  because  an 
old  lady  and  gentleman  are  too  selfish  —  " 

"  Hush,  hush,  Harry !  You  are  forgetting.  I  am  very  young ;  papa  and 
mamma  think  me  too  young  to  bind  myself  by  any  engagement." 

"  It  is  not  that.  They  choose  to  keep  you,  as  long  as  they  can,  mouldering 
with  themselves  in  this  old  house." 

"  Harry ! " 

"  Or  else  it  is  I  whom  they  dislike,  and  refuse  to  receive  as  a  son.  Too 
young  ?  why,  you  are  nineteen.  It  is  an  infamous  shame !  " 

"  I  will  not  speak  to  you,  if  you  go  on  in  this  way.     You  know  just  as  well 


SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

as  I  do  what  their  reasons  are.  My  poor  sister  Emily  made  a  love-match  at 
eighteen,  and  died,  broken-hearted,  at  twenty-three.  Her  husband  was  a 
violent,  jealous  man,  who  gave  her  neither  peace  nor  valuable  affection.  He 
looked  upon  her  as  a  pretty  toy,  petted  her,  and  was  raging  if  a  gentleman 
spoke  more  than  ten  words  by  her  side,  so  long  as  her  beauty  and  novelty 
lasted.  Her  health  failed,  her  delicate  loveliness  departed,  and  with  these 
went  his  worthless  passion.  I  was  a  mere  child  then — the  last  living  blossom  of 
a  long  garland  of  household  flowers  —  when  my  father  laid  his  beloved  Emily 
in  her  early  grave.  I  stood  by  his  great  chair  that  sad  evening  in  my  little 
black  gown  when  he  returned  from  the  funeral,  and  he  placed  his  hands 
upon  my  head  and  made  a  vow  that  never,  with  his  consent,  should  his  only 
remaining  darling  follow  in  the  steps  of  the  lost  one.  '  No  man  shall  have 
her  who  has  not  proved  himself  worthy  to  win  her.  As  Jacob  served  Labau 
shall  her  future  husband  serve  for  her,  if  it  please  God  that  she  live  and 
that  she  have  suitors.'  Day  by  day,  year  by  year,  he  has  but  strengthened 
himself  in  this  determination ;  and  when,  last  spring,  you  applied  to  him  for 
my  hand,  he  told  you  frankly  that  if  you  had  patience  to  wait,  and  were 
convinced  of  the  strength  of  our  mutual  attachment,  on  my  twenty-third 
birthday  you  might  claim  a  Mrs.  Harry  Trevor  from  his  fireside." 

"  But,  Nelly,  four  years  to  wait !  and  all  because  poor  Mrs.  Vernon  had 
weak  lungs  —  forgive  me,  dearest  Helen,  dearest  Helen  I "  But  Helen  walked 
on  and  away  from  him,  with  proper  indignation. 

With  impatient  strides  he  passed  her,  just  as  they  reached  the  lawn  which 
bordered  the  avenue  and  surrounded  the  house.  Extending  his  arms  to  bar 
her  passage,  "  Listen  to  me,  my  own  dear  Nelly,"  he  pleaded.  "  I  was 
wrong  to  say  that ;  but  you  cannot  understand,  my  angel,  how  furious  and 
intractable  I  become  when  I  think  of  those  incalculable  days  between  this 
time  and  the  blessed  moment  when  I  shall  be  sure  of  you." 

"  If  you  are  not  sure  of  me  now,  you  do  not  fancy  that  you  will  be  any 
more  so  then,  do  you  ? "  asked  Helen,  gravely ;  but  she  permitted  him  to 
lead  her  away  from  the  stone  steps  that  she  was  about  mounting,  and  back 
to  the  quiet  alley  under  the  old  oaks. 

He  drew  her  arm  through  his,  gently  stroking  her  gloved  hand  as  it  rested 
in  his  own. 

"  If  there  is  no  truth  and  belief  between  us  to-day,  there  will  be  none 
then,"  Helen  pursued.  "  I  am,  in  the  sight  of  heaven,  by  my  own  free  will 
and  wish,  your  affianced  wife.  All  the  priests  on  earth  would  not  make  me 
more  so,  in  spirit,  than  I  am  now.  But  I  respect  my  father's  wishes  and 
feelings ;  and  you  must  do  so  too,"  she  added,  lifting  her  eyes  with  such  a 
lovely  look  of  tenderness  that  Harry,  as  he  pressed  her  hand  with  renewed 
fervor,  murmured  a  blessing  in  quite  a  different  tone  from  the  one  which  he 
had  devoted  to  the  now  forgotten  Walter  James. 

He  glanced  around,  and  was  about  to  seal  his  happiness  upon  the  dainty 
pink  lips,  smiling  so  sweetly  and  confidingly;  but  Helen,  blushing  and  laugh 
ing,  said :  "  Take  care :  papa  is  reading  yesterday's  paper  at  the  left-hand 


SUE    PE  TIG  KIT    KING.  865 

window  of  the  dining-room ;  and  I  think,  if  one  eye  is  deciding  upon  the 
political  crisis,  the  other  is  directed  this  way." 

"  We  are  watched,  then ! "  exclaimed  Trevor,  passionately,  all  his  short 
lived  good-humor  again  flown.  "  This  is  worse  and  worse." 

Helen  looked  at  her  lover  with  a  calm,  searching  expression  in  her  blue 
eyes.  "  Perhaps  papa  is  right.  He  has  a  terror  of  violent  men,  and  he  may 
like  to  see  if  you  are  always  as  mild  as  he  sees  you  in  his  presence." 

Trevor  bit  his  lip  and  stamped  his  foot  impatiently.  Helen  hummed  a 
tune,  and  settled  her  belt-ribbon  with  one  hand,  while  she  played  the  notes 
she  was  murmuring  on  the  young  gentleman's  coat  sleeve  with  the  other. 

He  let  the  mischievous  fingers  slide  through  his  arm,  and  "thought  it  was 
going  to  rain,  and  he  had  better  be  thinking  of  his  ride  4o  the  city." 

Nelly  looked  up  at  the  blue  heavens,  where  not  a  speck  of  a  cloud  was 
visible,  and  gravely  congratulated  him  on  a  weather-wisdom  which  was 
equally  rare  and  incomprehensible. 

"  But  your  season,  my  dear  Harry,  is  always  April.  Sunshine  and  storm 
succeed  so  rapidly,  that  you  can  never  take  in  the  unbroken  calm  of  this  — 
.  December,  for  instance.  Beside,  I  thought  you  were  to  stay  all  night  with 
us  ?  I  know  mamma  expects  you  to  do  so." 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged,"  said  Mr.  Trevor,  haughtily ;  "  I  have  business 
in  town." 

"  Clients  ?  court  sitting  ?  "  asked  Nelly,  innocently,  and  demurely  lifting 
her  pretty  eyebrows. 

"  No.  There  is  a  party  at  Lou  Wilson's,  and  I  half  promised  to  go.  We 
are  to  try  some  new  figures  of  the  German." 

"  Indeed ! "  Nelly's  eyes  flashed,  and  the  color  stole  up  deeper  to  her 
cheek.  "  I  won't  detain  you." 

She  bowed,  and  turned  from  him  with  a  cold  good-morning.  Her  heart 
was  beating,  and  the  tears  were  very  near;  but  she  managed  to  still  the  one, 
and  send  back  the  others,  so  as  to  say  indifferently,  over  her  shoulder : 
"Should  you  see  Walter  James,  pray  tell  him  that  I  shall  be  happy  to  learn 
that  accompaniment  by  this  evening ;  and,  as  there  is  a  moon,  (in  spite  of 
your  storm,)  he  can  ride  out  after  business  hours  and  practise  the  song. 
But,  however,  I  won't  trouble  you ;  mamma  is  to  send  a  servant  to  Mrs. 
James's  some  time  to-day,  and  I  will  write  a  note." 

"  I  think  it  will  be  useless.     He  is  going  to  Miss  Wilson's." 

"  Not  if  he  can  come  here,  I  fancy,"  said  the  wilful  little  beauty,  with  a 
significant  tone;  and  then,  repeating  her  cool  "Good- by  —  let  us  see  you 
soon,"  she  sauntered  into  the  house,  elaborately  pausing  to  pick  off  some 
dead  leaves  from  the  geraniums  that  were  sunning  themselves  on  the  broad 
steps  by  which  she  entered. 

Thus  parted  two  foolish  children,  one  of  whom  had  a  moment  before 
expressed  the  most  overwhelming  passion,  and  the  other  had  avowed  herself) 
"  in  the  sight  of  heaven,  his  affianced  wife !  " 
23 


MRS.  CAROLINE  H.  JERVEY. 

CAROLINE  HOWARD  OILMAN,  the  daughter  of  Rev.  Samuel 
\J  Oilman,  a  Unitarian  clergyman,  and  Mrs.  Caroline  Oilman,  the 
celebrated  authoress,  was  born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  in  1823. 

In  1840,  Miss  Oilman  married  Mr.  Wilson  Glover,  a  South  Caro 
lina  planter,  and  was  left  a  widow  in  1846,  with  three  children,  one 
son  and  two  daughters.  She  returned  to  her  father's  house,  and  im 
mediately  began  to  teach,  and  for  fifteen  years  carried  on  a  successful 
school  in  Charleston. 

While  engaged  in  teaching,  she  wrote  papers  for  magazines,  also 
poems,  over  the  signature  of  "Caroline  Howard ;"  and  finally  her  novel, 
"  Vernon  Grove ;  or,  Hearts  as  they  Are,"  which  appeared  serially  in 
the  "  Southern  Literary  Messenger,"  and  was  afterward  published  by 
Rudd  &  Carleton,  New  York,  passing  through  several  editions,  and 
warmly  received  by  the  critics.  "  Vernon  Grov.e  "  was  copied  for  the 
press  at  night,  after  being  in  the  school-room  all  day ;  and  yet  Mrs. 
Glover  kept  up  all  her  social  duties,  visiting,  entertaining,  and  seem 
ing  always  to  be  as  completely  the  mistress  of  her  own  hours  as  the 
idlest  fine  lady. 

She  is  fastidiously  neat  and  particular  in  all  her  surroundings,  and 
a  wonder  for  arranging  and  contriving.  While  in  Greenville,  during 
the  war,  says  a  friend,  where  her  apartments  and  premises  were  un 
avoidably  small,  they  were  miracles  of  ingenuity  and  order. 

In  ,  1865,  Mrs.  Glover  married  Mr.  Louis  Jervey,  of  Charles 
ton,  who  had  been  devotedly  attached  to  her  for  many  years.  By 
this  marriage  she  has  one  daughter.  Her  son  is  married  ;  and  her 
eldest  daughter  has  been,  like  herself,  left  a  youthful  widow,  with  two 
little  children. 

In  Mrs.  Jervey's  home  circle  she  is  idolized ;  her  temper  is  perfectly 
even  and  self-controlled,  her  judgment  good  and  ready,  and  her  un 
failing  cheerfulness  and  flow  of  pleasing  conversation  make  her  a 
charming  companion.  She  talks  even  more  cleverly  than  she  writes, 
and  has  a  vein  of  humor  in  speaking  which  does  not  appear  at  all  in 
her  novels.  Mrs.  Jervey  is  uncommonly  youthful  in  appearance,  is 

866 


CAROLINE    H.    JERVEY.  867 

above  the  middle  height,  with  a  fine,  full  figure,  and  an  erect,  com 
manding  carriage.  Her  hair  is  golden-red  and  abundant;  her  com 
plexion  is  very  fair,  and  with  dark  eyebrows  and  lashes  she  would  be 
lovely :  as  it  is,  she  is  at  times  indisputably  handsome.  Her  manner 
is  striking,  lady-like,  perfectly  self-possessed — not  exactly  studied;  but 
"  her  memory  is  extremely  good,  and  she  never  forgets  to  be  grace 
ful,"  never  seems  to  give  way  to  an  awkward  impulse,  and  is  always 
posed  and  seen  to  advantage.  A  friend  says :  "  I  was  constantly  re 
minded  of  Mrs.  Jervey  by  Bistori's  attitudes  and  gestures." 

We  are  sorry  to  say  that  this  accomplished  lady  is  at  present  in  ill 
health  —  prohibited  any  literary  labor,  even  the  most  careless  letter- 
writing.  Her  latest  novel,  "  Helen  Courtenay's  Promise,"  (published 
by  George  W.  Carleton,  New  York,  1866,)  was  prepared  for  the  press 
by  dictation  of  an  hour  a  day  to  one  of  her  daughters.  This  novel 
has  been  styled  the  "  production  of  a  brilliant,  creative  fancy." 


STANZAS. 

Ye  strange,  mysterious  worlds  of  light  sublime, 
Far  wandering  through  the  trackless  maze  of  time 
With  measured  pace,  in  one  perpetual  round  — 
Unrivalled  orbs,  with  softest  radiance  crowned, 
Can  ye  with  earth,  our  glorious  earth  compare  ? 
Ye  globes  of  light,  that  seem  so  wondrous  fair ; 
Or  can  it  be  that  kind,  indulgent  Heaven, 
More  lenient  still,  far  lovelier  scenes  has  given  ? 

Do  lucid  streams  in  murmuring  ripples  flow, 

And  radiant  flowers  in  brightest  colors  glow  ? 

Do  forests  dark  their  branches  interweave, 

And  graceful  vines  in  wild  luxuriance  wreathe? 

Do  bright-winged  warblers  tune  their  lays  of  love 

In  the  green  alcove  of  each  fragrant  grove  ? 

Or  have  the  scenes  that  on  your  bosoms  rise, 

Oh !  have  their  counterpart  ne'er  met  our  earthly  eyes  ? 

So  purely  formed,  so  faultless  and  so  fair, 
All  earthly  dreams  but  faint  resemblance  bear ; 
So  far  removed  from  man's  degenerate  race, 
The  blest  recipients  of  unbounded  grace ; 


868  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

If  such  there  be  on  yon  fair  orbs  that  dwell, 
Whose  bosoms  pure  no  ruthless  passions  swell, 
For  whom  no  Saviour's  precious  blood 's  been  given, 
Themselves  so  guiltless  formed,  so  near  approaching  heaven 

Known  but  to  Him  whose  various  works  divine  — 
Known  but  to  Him  who  formed  the  grand  design 
Those  countless  myriads  borne  from  pole  to  pole, 
Whose  glittering  ranks  in  regal  splendor  roll. 
Exhaustless  theme  1  to  which  my  soul  aspires, 
Intensely  glow  my  spirit's  tameless  fires, 
Where  all  the  nobler  powers  of  being  reign, 
Yet  vainly  doth  it  strive  your  mysteries  to  explain. 

Those  star-begemmed  and  radiant  realms  divine, 
All  are  thy  works,  all-glorious  Parent,  thine  I 
The  more  we  search,  still  intricate  the  more, 
How  fain  would  we  those  azure  depths  explore, 
Whose  mystic  ways  (concealed  from  all  below) 
Intensely  burns  my  yearning  soul  to  know, 
Yet  calmly  waits  that  glorious  dawning  when 
Immortal  vision  bright  beams  in  the  eyes  of  men. 


JULIA  SLEEPING. 

Hush !  let  the  baby  sleep  ! 
Mark  her  hand  so  white  and  slender, 
Note  her  red  lip  full  and  tender, 
And  her  breathing,  like  the  motion 
Which  the  waves  of  calmest  ocean 

In  their  peaceful  throbbings  keep. 

Hush !   let  the  baby  rest  1 
Who  would  wake  from  blissful  sleeping, 
To  this  world  so  filled  with  weeping, 
Those  sweet  eyes,  like  stars  o'erclouded, 
Those  calm  eyes  with  dark  fringe  shrouded, 

Those  crossed  hands  upon  her  breast? 

Hush !   let  the  baby  rest ! 
See  each  white  and  taper  finger, 
Where  a  rose-tint  loves  to  linger, 


CAROLINE    H.    JERVEY.  860 

As  the  sun  at  evening  dying 
Leaves  a  flush  all  warmly  lying 
In  the  bosom  of  the  west  1 

See  on  her  lips  a  smile ! 
'Tis  the  light  of  dreamland  gleaming 
Like  to  morning's  first  faint  beaming: 
Hush!  still  solemn  silence  keeping, 
Watch  her,  watch  her  in  her  sleeping, 

As  she  smiles  in  dreams  the  while. 

I  would  paint  her  as  she  lies, 
With  brown  ringlets  damply  clinging 
To  her  forehead,  shadows  flinging 
On  its  whiteness  —  or  where  tracings 
Of  the  blue  veins'  interfacings 

On  its  snowy  surface  rise. 

God  hear  our  fervent  prayer! 
Through  the  whole  of  life's  commotion, 
As  she  stems  the  troubled  ocean, 
Give  her  calm  and  peaceful  slumber; 
And  may  sorrow  not  encumber 

Her  unfolding  years  with  care. 

Ah,  see,  her  sleep  is  o'er ! 
Flushed  her  cheek  is:   she  is  holding 
Mystic  converse  with  the  folding 
Of  the  curtains  o'er  her  drooping: 
What  beholds  she  in  their  looping 

Mortals  ne'er  beheld  before? 

Now  from  her  bath  of  sleep, 
Many  a  deep'ning  dimple  showing, 
She  hath  risen  fresh  and  glowing, 
Like  a  flower  that  rain  hath  brightened, 
Or  a  heart  that  tears  have  lightened, 

Tears  the  weary  sometimes  weep. 

Herself  the  silence  breaks ! 
Hear  her  laugh,  so  rich  and  ringing! 
Hear  her  small  voice  quaintly  singing ! 
She  hath  won  us  by  caressings: 
We  exhaust  all  words  in  blessings 

When  this  precious  baby  wakes. 


870  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 


A  SUMMER  MEMORY. 

Beloved,  't  was  a  night  to  shrine 

In  happy  thought  for  yean, 
A  memory  of  certain  joy, 

A  spell  'gainst  woe  and  tears. 

And  why?    Was  it  because  the  moon, 

More  bright  than  e'er  before, 
Stooped  from  her  throne  to  kiss  the  waves 

That  rippled  to  the  shore? 

Or  was  it  that  the  gentle  breeze, 
With  whispers  fond  and  sweet, 

Brought  fragrance  from  some  spicy  land 
And  laid  it  at  our  feet? 

Ah  !   never  since  primeval  time 

Was  night  so  fair  as  this  — 
So  filled  with  joy,  so  fraught  with  peace, 

So  marked  with  perfect  bliss. 

I  seemed  to  live  a  fresh,  new  life, 

A  life  almost  divine, 
As  on  the  glittering  shore  we  sat, 

Thy  meek  eyes  raised  to  mine. 

Was  it  the  night  that  brightened  all? 

Oft  comes  the  question  now  — 
The  night  that  brought  such  blest  content? 

No,  dearest,  it  was  thou. 


CAROLINE  A.  BALL. 

MRS.  BALL  is  the  daughter  of  the  late  Rev.  Edward  Rutledge,  an 
Episcopal  clergyman  of  Charleston.  Her  early  life  was  passed 
at  the  North,  having  been  educated  at  the  seminary  of  the  Misses 
Edwards,  in  New  Haven.  Her  first  poem,  or  rather  the  first  which 
caused  any  sensation,  was  written  when  she  was  sixteen,  and  was  a 
satirical  piece,  in  answer  to  an  impertinent  attack  on  woman  in  the 
"  Yale  Literary  Magazine."  It  was  published  anonymously,  and  was 
freely  discussed,  in  the  presence  of  the  fair  author,  by  the  students  of 
her  acquaintance,  in  terms  of  high  compliment,  or  in  condemnation 
of  its  severity. 

Mrs.  Ball  is  the  wife  of  Mr.  Isaac  Ball,  of  Charleston.  She  never 
published  under  her  own  name  until  the  struggle  for  "Southern  inde 
pendence  "  commenced.  The  poems  she  wrote  were  very  popular : 
coming,  as  they  did,  from  a  heart  full  of  love  for  her  fatherland,  they 
spoke  to  the  hearts  of  the  Southern  people,  inspired  by  the  same 
mighty  love. 

Her  poems  are  not  studied  efforts ;  but  of  and  from  the  heart. 

In  1866,  a  number  of  her  poems  on  the  war,  originally  published  in 
the  "  Charleston  Daily  News,"  were  printed  in  pamphlet  form  — 

IN   MEMOBIAM 

OF 

OUR   LOVED   AND  LOST   CAUSE, 

AND 

CUE   MARTYRED   DEAD: 

"Outnumbered  —  not  outbraved." 

This  book  was  entitled  "  The  Jacket  of  Gray,  and  Other  Fugitive 
Poems." 

THE  JACKET  OF  GRAY. 

Fold  it  up  carefully,  lay  it  aside, 
Tenderly  touch  it,  look  on  it  with  pride ; 
For  dear  must  it  be  to  our  hearts  evermore, 
The  jacket  of  gray  our  loved  soldier-boy  wore. 

871 


872  SOUTHLAND   WRITERS. 

Can  we  ever  forget  when  he  joined  the  brave  band 
Who  rose  in  defence  of  our  dear  Southern  land, 
And  in  his  bright  youth  hurried  on  to  the  fray, 
How  proudly  he  donned  it,  the  jacket  of  gray  ? 

His  fond  mother  blessed  him,  and  looked  up  above, 
Commending  to  Heaven  the  child  of  her  love : 
What  anguish  was  hers  mortal  tongue  cannot  say, 
When  he  passed  from  her  sight  in  the  jacket  of  gray. 

But  her  country  had  called,  and  she  would  not  repine, 
Though  costly  the  sacrifice  placed  on  its  shrine ; 
Her  heart's  dearest  hopes  on  its  altar  she  lay 
When  she  sent  out  her  boy  in  the  jacket  of  gray. 

Months  passed,  and  war's  thunders  rolled  over  the  land; 
Unsheathed  was  the  sword  and  lighted  the  brand ; 
We  heard  in  the  distance  the  sounds  of  the  fray, 
And  prayed  for  our  boy  in  the  jacket  of  gray. 

Ah !  vain,  all,  all  vain  Avere  our  prayers  and  our  tears ; 
The  glad  shout  of  victory  rang  in  our  ears ; 
But  our  treasured  one  on  the  red  battle-field  lay, 
While  the  life-blood  oozed  out  on  the  jacket  of  gray. 

His  young  comrades  found  him,  and  tenderly  bore       • 
The  cold,  lifeless  form  to  his  home  by  the  shore ; 
Oh  !  dark  were  our  hearts  on  that  terrible  day, 
When  we  saw  our  dead  boy  in  the  jacket  of  gray. 

Ah !  spotted  and  tattered,  and  stained  now  with  gore 
Was  the  garment  which  once  he  so  proudly  wore ; 
We  bitterly  wept  as  we  took  it  away, 
And  replaced  with  death's  white  robes  the  jacket  of  gray. 

We  laid  him  to  rest  in  his  cold,  narrow  bed, 
And  graved  on  the  marble  we  placed  o'er  his  head, 
As  the  proudest  tribute  our  sad  hearts  could  pay, 
He  never  disgraced  the  jacket  of  gray. 

Then  fold  it  up  carefully,  lay  it  aside, 
Tenderly  touch  it,  look  on  it  with  pride ; 
For  dear  must  it  be  to  our  hearts  evermore, 
The  jacket  of  gray  our  loved  soldier-boy  wore. 


CAROLINE    A.    BALL.  873 

OUR  SOUTHERN   WOMEN. 

In  reply  to  sundry  attacks  made  upon  them  by  the  Northern  press. 

When  war's  grim  visage  o'er  us  frowned, 
And  desolation  reigned  around; 
When  souls  of  joy  and  hope  were  shorn, 
And  life-strings  rudely  rent  and  torn ; 
When  e'en  our  bravest  were  unmanned, 
And  waves  of  woe  rolled  o'er  our  land, 
Our  Southern  women  fearless  stood, 
And  firmly  met  the  raging  flood. 

When  fiercely  rang  the  battle-cry, 
Calling  our  hosts  to  bleed  and  die; 
When  from  each  home  some  cherished  form 
Went  out  to  meet  the  gathering  storm ; 
When  death  was  showering  forth  his  darts, 
And  trampling  over  loving  hearts, 
Our  noble  women  checked  each  tear, 
And  uttered  nought  but  words  of  cheer. 

When,  after  each  terrific  fray, 
Wounded  and  faint  our  brave  boys  lay, 
Afar  from  friends,  afar  from  home, 
Where  best-beloved  ones  might  not  come; 
The  gentle  women  of  our  land, 
With  pitying  eye  and  tender  hand, 
Watched  tireless  by  each  sufferer's  bed, 
And  wept  above  the  unknown  dead. 

When  for  our  cause  each  hope  was  lost, 
And  every  soul  was  tempest-tost ; 
When  homes  in  ashes  round  us  lay, 
And  o'er  us  shone  no  cheering  ray; 
When  e,nemies,  with  taunt  and  jeer, 
Sought  to  bow  Southern  hearts  in  fear; 
Of  all  but  pride  and  honor  shorn, 
Our  women  paid  back  scorn  for  scorn. 


874  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Then  let  the  press,  by  Forney  led, 
Pour  out  its  wrath  on  woman's  head; 
Let  those  who  dared  not  face  our  men, 
And  wield  no  weapon  save  the  pen, 
Show  to  the  world  how  brave  they  grow 
When  woman  only  is  their  foe. 
By  enemies  as  vile  as  they, 
Though  venom  in  each  word  may  lay, 
Our  Southern  sisters,  true  and  tried, 
Care  not  how  much  they  are  belied ; 
While  loved  and  honored  still  they  stand 
The  pride  of  their  own  sunny  land. 


MRS.  MARY  S.  B.  SHINDLER. 

MARY  STANLY  BUNCE  PALMER  is  a  native  of  Beaufort,  S. 
C.,  but  removed  while  very  young  to  the  city  of  Charleston,  where 
her  father,  the  Rev.  B.  M.  Palmer,  was  the  highly  honored  pastor  of 
the  Independent  Church  on  Meeting  Street.  She  was  chiefly  educated 
at  the  seminary  of  the  Misses  Ramsay,  in  that  city ;  but,  in  conse 
quence  of  the  delicate  health  which  so  often  accompanies  the  delicate 
organism  of  the  gifted  children  of  song,  she  was  sent  for  a  short  period 
to  complete  her  studies  in  the  more  bracing  climate  of  the  North.  She 
gave  early  evidence  of  poetic  genius,  and  many  of  her  school-mates 
remember  with  pleasure  her  impromptu  and  mirthful  efforts  in  child 
hood.  After  her  return  to  Carolina,  Miss  Palmer  became  known  as  a 
contributor  to  the  "  Rosebud "  and  other  similar  periodicals.  Her 
graceful  manners  and  sprightly  conversation  made  her  at  all  times  a 
desirable  companion;  while  her  ready  sympathy  and  thorough  appre 
ciation  of  the  feelings  of  others  rendered  her  a  warmly  cherished  friend. 

In  1835,  Miss  Palmer  was  united  in  marriage  to  Mr.  Charles  E. 
Dana,  and  accompanied  him  to  the  city  of  New  York,  where  they 
spent  three  years,  and  then  removed  to  the  "West.  They  were  but  a 
short  time  located  in  their  new  home,  when  one  of  those  singular  epi 
demics  that  sometimes  sweep  over  the  rich  prairies,  and  enter  (none 
know  how)  into  the  new  settlements  that  populate  that  vast  region  of 
country,  appeared  in  the  vicinity  of  their  residence,  and  in  two  short 
days  Mr.  Dana  and  their  only  child  were  numbered  among  its  victims. 

Alone,  among  comparative  strangers,  Mrs.  Dana,  rousing  into  action 
the  latent  energy  of  her  character,  sought  and  gained  once  more  her 
Southern  home.  As  the  wearied  birdling  returns  to  the  parent  nest 
for  rest  and  comfort,  so  this  heart-stricken  wanderer  came  back  to  the 
bosom  of  her  family,  and,  amid  the  ties  of  kindred  and  associations  of 
her  girlhood,  found  consolation  for  her  grief  and  strength  for  the 
duties  yet  before  her. 

From  early  youth  she  had  written,  for  amusement,  occasional  con 
tributions  for  various  publications,  but  now  she  devoted  her  fine  talents 
to  the  task  as  a  regular  occupation  ;  and  in  1841  published  that  happy 

875 


876  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

combination  of  music  and  poetry  known  as  "  The  Southern  Harp." 
A  similar  volume  soon  followed  from  her  pen,  under  the  title  of"  The 
Northern  Harp,"  which  met  as  warm  a  welcome  as  her  first  attempt 
to  adapt  her  own  pure  thoughts  to  the  secular  music  familiar  to 
all.  Then  came  "  The  Parted  Family,  and  Other  Poems,"  also  a  suc 
cess.  About  the  year  1844,  Mrs.  Dana  published  a  succession  of  short 
prose  stories,  and,  soon  after,  her  largest  and  most  remarkable  prose 
work,  entitled  "  Letters  to  Relatives  and  Friends,"  written  to  defend 
her  changed  opinions  on  the  subject  of  religious  faith.  Doubts  of  the 
creed  she  had  inherited  had  arisen  in  her  mind,  and  investigation  had 
strengthened  them  into  a  conviction  that  she  had  mistaken  the  denom 
ination  to  which  she  should  attach  herself:  therefore  she  became  a 
Unitarian.  The  work  was  well  written,  and  immediately  republished 
in  London. 

In  1847,  Mrs.  Dana  suffered  another  most  deeply-felt  bereavement, 
in  the  death  of  both  of  her  parents,  and  it  required  all  the  support  of 
that  religion  which  she  had  still  continued  to  investigate,  to  enable  her 
to  bear  up  under  the  renewed  trial ;  and,  happily  for  her,  light  and 
strength  crowned  her  efforts. 

In  May,  1848,  she  married  the  Rev.  Robert  D.  Shindler,  of  the 
Episcopal  Church. 

"  Alas  for  those  who  love, 
Yet  may  not  join  in  prayer!" 

sings  Mrs.  Hemans,  in  her  "Forest  Sanctuary."  But  Mrs.  Dana- 
Shindler  was  spared  this  bitter  experience,  for  she  had  once  more 
returned  to  her  belief  in  the  Holy  Trinity,  and  could  unite  with  her 
husband  in  all  his  offerings  of  praise  and  prayer,  while  the  Angel  of 
Peace  folded  its  white  wings  over  her  chastened,  but  loving  heart. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Shindler  are  now  residents  of  Texas. 


MISS  ESSIE  B.  CHEESBOROUGH. 

ESSIE  B.  CHEESBOROUGH  is  a  daughter  of  the  late  John  W. 
Cheesborough,  a  prominent  shipping  merchant  of  Charleston, 
South  Carolina.  Her  mother  is  a  native  of  Liverpool,  England. 
Miss  Cheesborough  was  educated  in  Philadelphia  and  in  her  native 
city,  Charleston,  South  Carolina. 

She  commenced  her  literary  career  at  an  early  age,  writing  under 
the  noms  de  plume  of  "  Motte  Hall,"  "  Elma  South,"  "  Ide  Delmar," 
and  the  now  well-known  initials  of  "  E.  B.  C." 

She  was  a  regular  contributor  to  the  "  Southern  Literary  Gazette," 
published  in  Charleston,  and  edited  by  the  Rev.  William  C.  Richards ; 
and  when  Mr.  Paul  Hayne  assumed  the  editorship,  she  continued  her 
contributions.  She  was  also  a  contributor  to  "  Russell's  Magazine," 
one  of  the  best  magazines  ever  published  in  the  "  Southland,"  and  to 
various  other  Southern  literary  journals  of  the  past,  and  to  the  "Land 
we  Love,"  of  the  present  era.  After  the  war  she  was  a  regular  con 
tributor  to  the  "  Watchman,"  a  weekly  journal,  edited  and  published 
in  New  York  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Deems,  of  North  Carolina,  with  which 
journal  she  was  connected  until  its  discontinuance. 

Miss  Cheesborough's  style  is  fluent  and  easy,  and  she  does  not  pander 
to  the  sensational,  but  is  natural,  truthful,  and  earnest,  never  egotis 
tical,  or  guilty  of  "  fine  writing."  She  has  never  published  a  book, 
although  her  writings  on  various  subjects,  political,  literary,  and  reli 
gious,  would  fill  several  volumes. 


EENUNCIATION. 

I  know  that  thou  art  beautiful: 

The  glory  of  thy  face 
Are  those  dark  eyes  of  witchery, 

That  certain  nameless  grace. 
Old  Titian  would  have  painted  thee 

With  joy  too  deep  for  telling  — 


877 


878  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

That  ivory  cheek,  the  lustrous  light 
In  golden  tresses  dwelling. 

But,  manacled  by  solemn  fate, 

I  cannot  burst  the  fetters; 
Or  write  the  story  of  my  life 

In  precious,  golden  letters : 
Love's  star  for  me  can  never  shine; 

Its  trembling  light  grows  dimmer, 
As  through  the  dusky  veil  of  grief 

Hope  sends  a  feeble  glimmer. 

Then  go ;  and  in  thy  happy  fate 

Of  womanly  completeness, 
Make  strong  a  husband's  loving  heart 

With  all  thy  woman's  sweetness. 
But  I  must  stand  without  the  gate, 

While  Eden's  glowing  splendor 
Lights  up  with  its  aurora  smile 

The  glories  I  surrender. 


MANACLED. 

Stop,  soldier,  stop !  this  cruel  act 

Will  ring  through  all  the  land: 
Shame  on  the  heart  that  planned  this  deed- 

Shame  on  the  coward  hand 
That  drops  the  sword  of  justice  bright 

To  grasp  these  iron  rings! 
On  them,  not  me,  dishonor  falls ; 

To  them  this  dark  shame  clings. 

Manacled !    0  my  God !  my  God ! 

Is  this  a  Christian  land? 
And  did  our  countries  ever  meet 

And  grasp  each  other's  hand? 
O  Mexico !  on  thy  red  fields 

I  battled  'midst  the  fray ; 
My  riflemen,  with  steady  aim, 

Won  Buena  Vista's  day. 


ESSIE    B.    CHEESBOROUGH.  879 

Manacled!    Far  down  the  South 

Let  this  one  word  speed  fast: 
My  country,  thou  hast  borne  great  wrongs, 

But  this,  the  last,  the  last, 
Will  send  a  thrill  through  thy  high  heart, 

Despair  will  spurn  control; 
And  these  hard  irons  pressing  HERE 

Will  enter  thy  proud  soul. 

Manacled !    Oh,  word  of  shame ! 

Eing  it  through  all  the  world! 
My  countrymen,  on  you,  on  you 

This  heavy  wrong  is  hurled. 
We  flung  our  banners  to  the  air; 

We  fought  as  brave  men  fight; 
Our  battle-cry  rang  through  the  land  — 

HOME!  LIBERTY!  AND  RIGHT! 

Manacled !    For  this  I  am  here, 

Clanking  the  prisoner's  chain! 
We  fought  —  ah!  nobly  did  we  fight; 

We  fought,  but  fought  in  vain. 
Down  in  that  billowy  sea  of  blood 

Went  all  our  jewels  rare, 
And  Hope  rushed  wailing  from  the  scene, 

And  took  herself  to  prayer. 

Manacled !  manacled !  words  of  woe, 

But  words  of  greater  shame : 
I've  that  within  me  which  these  wrongs 

Can  never,  never  tame ; 
And  standing  proud  in  conscious  worth, 

I  represent  my  land, 
And  that  "  lost  cause "  for  which  she  bled, 

Lofty,  heroic,  grand. 


FEASTING  THE  LIONS. 

DEAR  MRS.  GREEIST  :  —  You  will  be  charmed  to  understand  that  the  Hon. 
Fitzroy  Seymour,  formerly  St.  Maur,  is  at  the  Mills  House.  The  Hon. 
Fitzroy  belongs  to  one  of  the  noble  families  of  England,  and  also  enjoys  im 
mense  celebrity  as  a  poet.  His  lady  is,  no  doubt,  equally  celebrated ;  indeed, 
she  has  written  some  very  sweet  things,  perfect  bonbons  in  the  way  of  poetry. 
Oblige  me  by  laying  down  your  "  Metastasio,''  and  taking  up  the  Seymours. 


880  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Before  calling,  which,  with  your  well-known  courtesy  to  strangers,  you  will 
of  course  do,  pardon  this  gentle  hint:  make  yourself  acquainted  with*  the  de 
licious  muse  of  Fitzroy  8.  It  charms  an  author  to  find  you  at  home  amid 
his  garden  of  sweets ;  and  the  larger  the  bouquet  of  his  flowers  of  rhetoric 
you  cull,  the  closer  he  clasps  you  to  his  heart  and  approbation.  * 

Accept,  dear  Mrs.  Green,  the  accompanying  volume  of  poems  by  this  gifted 
and  highly  distinguished  stranger,  and  oblige  yours,  devotedly, 

SOLOMON  FANTASIO. 

January  25. 

How  delightfully  considerate  in  Solomon  Fantasio !  It  was  Mrs.  Green's 
peculiar  forte,  entertaining  distinguished  strangers ;  and  Solomon  Fantasio,  a 
gentleman  of  elegant  leisure,  limited  means,  and  very  extended  views  of  hos 
pitality  and  benevolence,  which  he  carried  out  at  other  people's  expense,  took 
care  that  Mrs.  Green  should  never  be  at  a  loss  for  proper  objects  upon 
which  to  exercise  her  talent. 

"  I  make  it  a  matter  of  religion,"  said  Mrs.  Green  to  Mr.  Green,  the  day 
the  Fantasio  communication  arrived,  "to  entertain  strangers,  and  to  use  hos 
pitality  without  grudging." 

"  That  you  are  deeply  religious,  Arabella,  I  am  not  disposed  to  doubt,  for 
you  gave,  last  year,  at  my  expense,  what  you  termed  a  charity  ball.  This  is 
now  a  matter  of  money,  and  not  of  religion,  and  my  purse  will  not  stand  this 
everlasting  tugging  at  its  strings." 

"  Tugging  at  its  strings,  Mr.  Green  !  your  grassttrete  is  remarkable  !  " 

"  Well,  then,  feeding  these  people,  who  go  away  and  laugh  at  us  for  our 
pains." 

" Go  on,"  said  Mrs.  Green,  majestically.  "What  else  have  you  to  say?" 
at  the  same  time  preventing  Mr.  Green  from  complying  with  her  request  by 
continuing  the  conversation  herself.  "  Do  you  suppose  these  people  only 
come  here  to  eat?  What  an  outcry  you  are  raising  about  nothing !"  And 
Mrs.  Green  turned  away  indignantly  from  her  inhospitable  lord. 

But  the  Fates,  that  "  lead  the  willing  and  drag  the  unwilling,"  hauled  Mr. 
Green,  kicking  and  resisting,  to  his  destiny.  It  was  decreed  that  the  Sey 
mours  were  to  be  feted  ;  the  lions  were  to  be  patted  and  caressed,  and  Mrs. 
Green  must  introduce  them  into  Charleston  society,  so  that  all  who  desired, 
could  have  an  opportunity  of  placing  "  their  hands  upon  the  lions'  manes," 
and  "  playing  familiar  with  their  locks." 

Having  made  herself  mistress  of  the  table  of  contents  of  the  volume  of  poems 
by  the  distinguished  stranger  —  for  to  drink  deep  of  his  Pierian  spring  was  a 
task  Mrs.  Green  was  not  equal  to — escorted  by  Solomon  Fantasio,  she  went 
in  quest  of  the  British  lions.  That  night  the  royal  animals  roared  amid  the 
flower  of  the  aristocracy,  in  the  elegant  drawing-room  of  Merriman  Green, 
Esq.  But  Southern  hospitality  is  a  whole-soul  feeling;  it  must  not  stop 
here  —  it  must  go  and  remove  the  Seymours,  bodily,  from  the  hotel,  and  set 
them  down  in  the  mansion  of  the  Greens.  This  it  did ;  and  here  is  the 
grand  fina!6 : 


ESSIE     B.    CHEESBOBOUGH.  881 

"  Mirum  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Green,  with  a  waggish  smile,  on  the  day  after 
the  Seymours  had  departed. 

"  What  is  mirum,  my  dear?  "  asked  Mrs.  Green,  plaintively. 

"  That  the  lions  are  off,  and  we  are  not  bitten." 

Mrs.  Green  gazed  with  deeply  rueful  visage  into  the  fire,  and  sighed. 

"  Who  next,  my  love?"  asked  Mr.  Green. 

Mrs.  Green  replied  not ;  she  was  even  then  smarting  from  the  lion's  bite, 
and  had  no  ointment  wherewith  to  mollify  it. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Mr.  Green ;  "  we  have  got  through  with  one  Chinese, 
an  out-and-out  Celestial;  two  distinguished  Greeks,  who  were  never  on  those 
'  classic  shores ; '  three  eminently  distinguished  poets  —  " 

"  Oh,  forbear  your  enumeration,"  implored  Mrs.  Green,  tearfully. 

"My  dear,  why  object?  hcec  olim  meminisse  juvabit  ?" 

"  I  do  not  understand  Latin,  but  I  do  understand  English :  here,  read  this, 
and  Mrs.  Green  thrust  a  book  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Green. 

"  Humph !  "  he  said,  reading  the  title,  "  Copies  of  Letters  written  when 
in  America,  to  our  Friends  in  England."  "  Precious  legacy !  "  he  continued; 
"  left  by  mistake,  no  doubt.  Well,  we  surely  have  nothing  to  complain  of 
from  these  distinguished  strangers.  We  provided  their  dinners,  and  they 
honored  us  by  eating  them ;  they  treated  us  with  the  most  refreshing  consid 
eration  ;  they  took  the  back  seats  in  the  carriage ;  drank  '  God  save  the 
Queen '  in  my  best  wine ;  Fitzroy  smoked  out  my  best  segars,  peace  to 
their  ashes  ;  and  Mrs.  Fitzroy  accepted  your  most  sparkling  diamonds, 
which  she  '  vastly  admired.'  All  of  which  is  charming  —  but  to  the  letters." 

Letter  of  the  Hon.  Fitzroy  Seymour  to  the  Hon.  C.  Bedivere  Audley. 

DEAR  AND  HON.  SIR  :  —  My  last  was  from  New  York ;  this  is  from  Charles 
ton,  a  small,  dingy  town  in  one  ol'  the  Southern  States  of  America.  Two 
months  ago,  I  was  unfortunate  enough  to  land  here,  where  I  have  been  feted, 
feasted,  questioned,  and  bored  almost  to  death.  I  am  really  sick  of  attention, 
being  ready  to  cry  out, 

"  '  Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John/  fatigued  I  said, 
'  Tie  up  the  knocker,  say  I  'm  sick,  I  'm  dead.' " 

I  have  yielded,  I  hope,  with  proper  resignation  to  my  fate ;  indeed,  rebellion 
would  have  been  useless.  The  population  flocked  around  me  en  masse,  and 
one  individual,  Green  by  name,  greener  by  nature,  [at  this  racy  paragraph 
"  Green  by  name,  greener  by  nature,"  kicked  the  table-leg  with  unwonted 
energy,  and  muttered  something  not  to  be  mentioned  to  ears  polite,]  forced 
me  into  leaving  my  hotel  and  cohabiting  with  himself.  ["  Was  there  ever  a 
man  so  slandered  by  tourist  or  traveller  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Green,  angrily.]  I  al 
lowed  myself  to  be  forced  by  this  Green  into  his  house,  imagining  that  under 
a  private  roof  I  could  enjoy  more  frequent  opportunities  of  studying  the 
much-vexed  question  of  Slavery. 

I  found  that  Fame,  with  noisy  trump,  had  blown  my  literary  celebrity  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  land.     My  volume  I  found  in  all  hands,  and  my 
24 


882  SOUTHLAND     WRITERS. 

poetry  on  all  tongues.  I  was  regarded  as  one  whose  eyes  roll  with  genuine 
poetic  frenzy.  Ah,  my  friend,  wnat  a  difference  does  a  trip  a<-n>ss  the  At 
lantic  make  in  one's  condition  !  With  regard  to  the  literary  standing  of  this 
place,  you  will  not  be  surprised  to  hear  that  it  amounts  to  nothing.  "  Kns- 
sell's  Magazine"*  is  the  exponent  of  the  literature  of  the  place:  its  articles 
would  shame  our  meanest  English  periodical ;  that  is,  it  would  be  ashamed 
to  publish  such  unmitigated  trash.  Its  contributors  are  women ! ! !  boys,  and 
that  class  of  ancients  known  by  the  name  of  "  old  fogy."  I  attended  a  Lite 
rary  Club,  where  a  prosy  gentleman  read  a  prosy  c<say  in  a  prosy  tone,  which 
was  responded  to  by  a  dozen  other  prosy  gentlemen,  and  every  subject  dis 
cussed  save  the  one  under  discussion.  Long  live  Carolina  savans,  say  I. 

But,  my  friend,  what  shall  I  say  of  slavery,  that  foul  blot  on  the  people 
of  the  South?  what  new  light  can  I  throw  upon  this  dark  subject,  this  ebon 
theme  ?  Oh,  I  implore  your  pity  for  the  down-trodden  slave  of  the  white  man : 
extend  from  the  land  of  Wilberforce  sympathy  and  help.  Of  all  our  for 
eign  relations,  these  our  sable  brothers  demand  our  greatest  attention.  I 
have  been  an  eyewitness  to  the  evils  they  endure,  and  the  cruel  ills  their 
flesh  is  heir  to.  They  are  branded,  they  are  scourged,  they  are  flayed,  they 
are  flogged,  they  are  pickled,  they  are  peeled ;  in  short,  they  are  subjected  to 
everything  but  bleaching.  The  consequence  is,  they  are  a  race  of  invalids, 
and,  notwithstanding  I  have  made  diligent  search,  I  cannot  find  one  sable 
brother  or  sister  who  is  quite  well;  in  their  own  peculiar,  but  expressive 
language,  they  are  "  only  so-so."  Their  enervated  condition  is  a  palpable 
fact.  In  passing  through  the  streets,  how  have  I  thrilled  with  horror  to  see  as 
many  as  half  a  dozen  sable  ones,  of  the  masculine  gender,  leaning  at  various 
doors  on  the  tops  of  their  brooms !  "  What,  lazy?  "  you  say.  Ah,  no,  my  friend, 
they  are  not  a  lazy  race,  but  actually  too  feeble  to  sweep  continuously  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour ;  whilst  the  sable  ones  of  the  feminine  gender,  in  a  simi 
larly  enervated  condition,  were  leaning  from  the  windows,  animating  by 
their  cheerful  converse  their  companions  in  affliction,  their  brothers  in  bonds. 
Ah  !  can  we  draw  from  the  deep  fount  of  pity  too  much  sympathy  to  bestow 
on  the  poor  helot  of  Carolina?  The  blackest  shades  that  you  have  seen  of 
this  black  picture  are  not  black  enough  to  paint  the  dark  reality.  How  can 
the  sun  shine  so  goldenly  over  this  sin-stained  community?  how  can  the 
moon  spread  her  silver  arch  over  such  a  spot?  enough  of  this  heart-rending 
theme.  When  I  reach  England  —  land  of  the  free  and  the  brave  —  I  must, 
of  course,  write  a  book,  in  which  I  promise  to  illustrate  my  remarks  on 
slavery,  by  incidents  gathered  in  the  house  and  in  the  kitchen.  The  vile  in 
stitution  shall  be  exposed  in  all  its  horrors,  and  such  a  picture  exhibited  that 
even  "  the  bravest  will  shrink  back,  dumb  with  dismay." 

"  I  have  read  enough,"  said  Mr.  Green,  breaking  off  from  the  Honorable's 
letter,  abruptly  ;  "  now  for  the  lady's." 

Oh,  dear  Lady  Barbara !  what  a  place  the  Fates  and  Fitzroy  have  set  me 
down  in  !  Dingy,  dirty,  disagreeable ;  utterly  without  paint;  washed  only 
by  the  rains  of  heaven.  I  shall  leave  it  de  font  mon  cceur.  I  have  been 
bored  to  death  by  attention,  and  deluged  with  civilities,  until,  in  perfect 
desperation,  I  lift  up  my  hands  imploringly,  and  cry :  "  Hold !  enough !  "  I 
have  attended  several  parties,  at  which,  "in  clouded  majesty,  dulness  shone." 
The  gentlemen  congregated  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  practised  yawn- 

•This  was  published  in  "  Russell's  Magazine,"  September,  1858. 


ESSIE    B.    CHEESBOROUGH.  883 

ing,  whilst  the  ladies  sat  around  the  edges,  stiff,  starched,  silent.  Tacita 
presided.  How  I  longed  for  one  hour  of  my  dear  Lady  Barbara's  charming 
"  conversation  evenings  " !  One  fair  dame  launched  out  on  the  sea  of  conver 
sation,  and  in  this  wise  edified  her  next-door  neighbor :  "  Maum  Venus's 
shortcomings  are  unbearable ;  and  Maum  Flora's  long  goings,  who  stays 
almost  forever  when  sent  on  an  errand ;  Daddy  Neptune  is  always  '  half  seas 
over,'  and  when  wanted  to  hand  the  waiter  on  particular  occasions,  is  in  no 
condition  to  distribute  the  edibles."  Oh,  tender  Lady  Barbara !  how  sadly 
fare  the  gods  and  their  ladies  at  the  hands  of  exacting  mortals !  These 
wretched  slaves,  kind  Lady  Barbara,  are  most  cruelly  treated ;  but  I  have 
not  the  heart  to  linger  on  this  subject.  Fitzroy  will,  however;  his  powerful 
pen,  stimulated  by  his  powerful  imagination,  can  do  ample  justice  to  the 
theme.  There  is  a  little  poem  floating  in  my  brain  now,  which  I  will  pen 
for  your  perusal ;- 1  will  call  it  "  The  Slave  in  Chains."  It  was  suggested  to 
me  by  seeing  a  daughter  of  Afric's  land  with  a  gold  chain  around  her  neck, 
said  to  be  stolen  from  her  young  mistress's  jewel-box.  I  intend  to  turn  the 
links  into  iron  —  to  place  manacles  on  her  wrists,  instead  of  the  bracelets  I 
saw  there,  and  to  pull  off  her  stockings  and  place  her  bare  feet  in  stocks. 
You  see,  my  dear  Lady  Barbara,  there  is  nothing  like  giving  a  complete 
picture,  perfect  in  all  its  parts,  and  in  exact  keeping  with  the  subject.  If  I 
painted  a  slave  in  stockings  and  a  gold  chain,  the  English  world  would  say : 
"  Very  pretty,  but  exceedingly  unlike."  Therefore,  to  make  her  in  accord 
ance  with  John  Bull's  idea,  you  see  the  necessity  I  am  under  of  changing 
the  material  of  which  her  chain  is  made.  You  are  not  obtuse,  Lady  Bar 
bara  ;  you  see  far  down  into  the  clear  depths  of  this  idea,  do  you  not  ? 

Now  for  Charleston  ladies !  Two  words  paint  the  picture  —  scolds, 
dowds ;  the  gentlemen  overbearing,  conceited,  always  saying,  "  I  and  my 
king,"  ever  elevated  on  the  highest,  peak  of  impudence.  I  am  staying  with 
a  Mrs.  Green ;  a  very  good  sort  of  person ;  quite  an  obliging  creature  really, 
though  she  will  insist  upon  going  to  dinner  in  short  sleeves  and  low  neck, 
and  calling  it  high  dress.  Mr.  Green  is  ignorant  and  vulgar ;  he  will  call 
Fitzroy's  charming  "Ode  to  the  Queen"  an  "odious."  The  man  is  most  dis 
agreeably  plebeian  — 

"I  '11  read  no  more,"  said  Mr.  Green,  indignantly;  "eat  my  dinners,  drink 
my  wine,  smoke  my  cigars,  accept  my  wife's  best  diamond,  ride  in  my  car 
riage,  and  then  —  " 

"Oh,  hush,  Mr.  Green!  these  letters  are  charming;  go  on,  pray;  we  are  on 
the  tiptoe  of  expectation  to  hear  what  else  the  lady  says  about  you.  We 
are  laughing  merrily  at  your  expense." 

Mr.  Green  looked  up  pleasantly.  "  Ah !  my  friends,  quid  rides  f  Mutato 
nomine,  de  te  fabula  narratur.  Which,  being  changed  into  English  for  your 
comfort  and  reflection,  reads  thus :  '  Why  do  you  laugh  ?  Change  but  the 
name,  and  the  story  is  told  of  yourself.'  " 


MARY  SCRIMZEOUR   WHITAKER. 

THE  author  of  "  Albert  Hastings  "  and  various  productions,  prose 
and  poetical,  is  a  native  of  Beaufort  District,  South  Carolina. 
Her  father,  Rev.  Professor  Samuel  Furman,  son  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Rich 
ard  Furman,  of  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  is  a  clergyman  of  the 
Baptist  persuasion,  still  living  at  the  advanced  age  of  seventy-seven 
years,  and  famed  for  his  learning,  eloquence,  and  piety.  Her  mother, 
whose  maiden  name  was  Scrimzeour,  is  of  Scottish  descent,  and  traces 
back  her  lineage  to  Sir  Alexander  Scrimzeour,  celebrated  in  Scottish 
fitory,  whose  descendants,  in  the  male  line,  were  hereditary  standard- 
bearers  of  the  kings  of  Scotland. 

Her  father  having  removed  from  Beaufort  to  Sumter  District,  she 
passed  the  early  part  of  her  life  at  the  High  Hills  of  Santee,  probably 
the  most  beautiful  and  romantic  portion  of  South  Carolina.  There  is 
little  doubt  that  the  sublime  and  picturesque  features  of  the  landscape 
by  which  she  was  surrounded  sensibly  affected  her  imagination.  She 
gave  early  indications  of  possessing  a  poetic  temperament,  and  pieces 
composed  by  her  at  the  age  of  ten  and  twelve  years  were  prophetic  of 
the  excellence  she  subsequently  attained  as  a  votary  of  the  Muses. 
She  pursued  her  studies,  embracing  ancient  and  modern  literature,  at 
home.  As  she  grew  up  to  womanhood,  she  manifested  a  fondness  for 
society;  and,  endowed  with  personal  and  intellectual  traits  which  fitted 
her  to  adorn  any  sphere,  ere  long  became  one  of  the  attractions  of  the 
highly  refined  circle  in  which  she  moved. 

She  was  devoted  to  history,  and  her  father's  library  furnished  her 
with  the  best  sources  of  information.  She  read  rapidly,  was  in  the 
habit  of  drawing  her  own  inferences,  and  of  writing  comments  and 
criticisms  upon  the  most  striking  passages  she  read. 

Among  the  poets,  Pope  and  Campbell  were  her  favorites  and  models. 
Pope's  translation  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  of  Homer  were  the  con 
stant  companions  of  her  childhood ;  and  she  read  them  so  often,  and 
was  so  struck  with  their  numerous  beauties,  that,  even  to  this  day,  she 
retains  whole  scenes  in  her  memory.  She  is  an  admirer  of  Felicia 
Hemans  and  L.  E.  L.  She  loved  them  for  the  deep  fountain  of  feel- 

884 


MARY    SCRIMZEOUR     WHITAKER.  885 

ing  which  is  discoverable  in  their  writings.  For  the  same  reason  she 
admired  Scott  and  Burns.  She  was  also  attracted  by  the  simplicity 
and  purity  of  style  of  these  authors,  and  the  high-wrought  genius 
which  diffuses  such  a  charm  over  all  their  productions. 

The  critical  articles  on  the  poets  from  the  days  of  Dryden  to  those 
of  Tennyson,  which  appeared  editorially  in  the  Sunday  issue  of  the 
"Times"  newspaper  in  New  Orleans  during  the  year  1866,  and  which 
were  greatly  admired  for  their  acumen  and  terseness,  were  from  her 
pen. 

Previous  to  the  late  war,  she  was,  for  some  time,  a  regular  contri 
butor  to  the  Philadelphia  magazines,  writing  under  her  own  name, 
regarding  a  nom  de  plume  as  a  foolish  species  of  affectation,  and  not 
being  ashamed  to  claim  the  authorship  of  anything  she  wrote  herself, 
nor  willing  that  it  should  be  claimed  by  others. 

In  1837,  she,  with  her  parents  and  two  of  her  brothers,  visited' 
Edinburgh,  her  mother  being  entitled  to  a  large  estate  in  Scot 
land,  then  in  litigation,  and  which  she  finally  recovered.  They  took 
lodgings  in  a  fashionable  portion  of  the  New  Town  of  Edinburgh,  char 
acterized  by  the  elegance  and  massive  character  of  its  private  edifices 
and  the  beauty  of  its  gardens.  Here  she  passed  her  time  surrounded 
by  friends,  among  whom  were  some  of  the  most  distinguished  literati 
of  that  ancient  metropolis,  such  as  Campbell,  the  poet;  the  Messrs. 
Chambers,  editors  of  "  Chambers's  Journal;"  Professor  Wilson,  editor 
of  "  Blackwood's  Magazine  ;  "  Professor  Moir,  (the  "  Delta  "  of  that 
work  ;)  Mr.  Tait,  editor  of  "  Tait's  Magazine ;  "  Burton,  the  historian  ; 
Mary  Howitt,  and  other  notables.  Campbell  was  so  pleased  with  her 
poetry  that  he  encouraged  her  not  to  neglect  her  gift,  and  compli 
mented  her  highly,  calling  her  "  his  spiritual  daughter."  Some  of  her 
fugitive  pieces  were  published,  at  the  time,  in  the  quarterlies  of  Great 
Britain. 

She  often  refers  to  her  visit  to  Scotland,  where  she  spent  nearly  two 
yeara  with  high  satisfaction,  styling  it  the  most  golden  period  of  her 
existence. 

While  in  Edinburgh,  she  formed  an  acquaintance  with  a  young  and 
distinguished  advocate  of  the  Scottish  Bar,  of  high  connections,  John 
Miller,  Esq.,  (brother  of  Hon.  William  Miller,  now  member  of  the 
British  Parliament,)  whom  she  subsequently  married.  Having  received 
the  appointment  of  Attorney  General  of  the  British  West  Indies,  he 
embarked  for  Nassau,  N.  P.,  with  his  young  wife,  but  immediately 


886  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

after  his  arrival  there,  he  was  seized  with  yellow  fever  and  fell  a  victim 
to  its  insidious  attacks.  Mrs.  Miller,  assailed  by  the  same  fearful  dis 
ease,  recovered  from  it,  and,  with  a  heavy  heart,  returned  in  a  Govern 
ment  vessel  to  South  Carolina. 

The  trial  which  she  was  called  on  to  endure  in  the  loss  of  her  gifted 
and  distinguished  companion  was  very  severe,  and  tinged  with  sadness 
several  of  the  subsequent  years  of  her  life.  Her  vivid  descriptions  of 
the  scenery  of  the  West  Indies,  and  of  the  epidemics  which  annually 
sweep  off  so  many  of  its  inhabitants,  contained  in  "  Albert  Hastings," 
were  doubtless  suggested  by  her  visit  to  that  beautiful  but  fatal  region. 

Gradually  she  returned  to  society,  of  which  she  became  once  more 
the  life  and  ornament.  Possessed  of  conversational  powers  of  a  high 
order,  and  of  a  quick  wit,  that  charmed  and  often  startled  by  its  bril 
liancy,  no  evening  assemblage  gathered  in  her  neighborhood  was  re 
garded  as  complete  that  did  not  number  her  among  its  guests.  In 
short,  the  youthful  Mrs.  Miller  was  very  popular  —  very  accomplished. 
In  person,  she  is  rather  petite,  but  the  elegance  and  perfect  symmetry 
of  her  figure,  the  animation  of  her  expressive  countenance,  especially 
when  engaged  in  a  literary  conversation,  the  elegance  of  her  diction, 
the  affability  of  her  manners,  and  the  perfect  propriety  of  her  dress, 
(to  which  no  lady  should  be  indifferent,  and  which,  in  her  case,  was 
always  d  la  mode,}  made  her,  whenever  she  entered  a  drawing-room 
filled  with  cultivated  persons  of  both  sexes,  "  the  observed  of  all  ob 
servers." 

After  twelve  years  passed  in  widowhood,  almost  exclusively  devoted 
to  literary  studies  and  pursuits,  she  again  married.  The  individual 
who  was  so  fortunate  as  to  win  her  heart  and  hand,  while  she  was  still 
in  the  prime  of  her  beauty  and  womanhood,  was  Daniel  K.  Whitaker, 
Esq.,  a  gentleman  not  undistinguished  in  the  world  of  letters,  the  well- 
known  editor  for  many  years  of  the  "  Southern  Quarterly  Review,"  a 
fine  scholar,  and  an  elegant  and  accomplished  writer.  With  him,  she 
has  lived  happily  for  twenty  years,  and  has  surviving,  of  six  children, 
two  fair  daughters,  who,  in  intellect  and  attractions,  bid  fair  to  emu 
late  their  distinguished  mother. 

In  1850,  Mrs.  Whitaker,  at  the  request  of  numerous  friends  with 
whom,  as  a  poet,  she  was  a  great  favorite,  consented  to  collect  and 
publish  a  volume  of  her  poems,  which  have  been  highly  commended 
by  the  best  critics,  particularly  by  William  Cullen  Bryant,  himself 
the  first  American  poet  of  his  age.  Her  lyrical  effusions  are  charac- 


MAEY    SCRIMZEOUR    WHITAKER. 

terized  by  pathos  and  tenderness.  The  euphony  of  her  rhythm  is  un 
surpassed  by  that  of  Pope  himself,  of  whose  musical  numbers  she  was 
so  fond.  She  confines  herself  to  no  one  style  of  versification,  but  re 
sorts  at  will  to  all  those  forms  of  "  linked  sweetness "  in  which  the 
Muses  delight  to  revel.  "  The  Creole,"  a  tale  of  some  length,  descrip 
tive  of  a  West  India  courtship  which  ends  tragically,  is  conceived  in 
a  very  original  vein.  The  beautiful  scenery  of  that  fair  clime  receives 
its  full  share  of  attention  from  this  poet-artist. 

Ther.e  are  pieces  in  the  collection  characterized  by  spirit  and  fire ; 
but  the  majority  of  her  effusions  are  deeply  tinged  with  the  serious 
ness  that  naturally  resulted  from  passages  in  her  early  history.  The 
tributes  to  "Scott,"  "Byron,"  "Campbell,"  " Caravaggio,"  "Miss  Lan- 
don,"  and  "  Mrs.  Hemans,"  are  among  the  most  finished  of  her  com 
positions.  Many  of  her  best  pieces,  written  since  this  volume  was 
published,  (several  of  them  elicited  by  the  scenes  of  the  late  war  and 
the  gallantry  of  our  generals  upon  the  battle-field,)  are  scattered  in 
the  newspapers  and  periodicals  of  the  day. 

"Albert  Hastings"  is  her  first  extended  effort  in  the  department  of 
novel-writing.  The  scene  of  the  novel,  commencing  in  the  Southern 
States,  ends  in  England,  the  birthplace  of  the  ancestors  of  the  hero, 
where,  after  struggling  manfully  with  many  difficulties  which  beset 
him  in  the  outset  of  his  career  in  this  country,  he  inherits  a  princely 
fortune.  This  work  is  the  precursor  of  others,  which,  the  writer  of 
this  sketch  understands,  are  either  finished  or  in  course  of  preparation. 

The  following  sonnet  (a  difficult  kind  of  writing,  but  which  has  the 
advantage  of  embodying  multum  in  parvo,}  upon  Mrs.  Hemans,  one 
of  the  most  gifted  of  England's  fair  poets,  may  give  the  reader  an 
idea  of  the  refinement  of  her  taste  and  the  admirable  justness  of  her 
discriminations : 

MRS.  HEMANS. 


O  woman  poet!  wrapped  in  musings  high, 
How  rich,  how  soft,  how  pure  thy  minstrelsy ! 
Whose  trumpet  tones  arouse  and  thrill  the  heart: 
Thy  muse-like  form  and  soul-lit  face  appear, 
Like  thy  own  Psyche's,  borne  on  ambient  air 
To  pleasure's  fragrant  grove  and  golden  isle, 
Where  blushing  fruits  and  heavenly  flowers  smile. 


888  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Thine  was  the  inborn  light  which  sheds  its  ray 
Around  the  poet's  mind-illumined  way : 
Forever  changing  and  forever  bright, 
And  swaying  all  things  with  its  mystic  might, 
A  moral  grandeur  graced  thy  melting  song, 
Which  flowed  in  numbers  liquid,  sweet,  and  strong. 


THE  SUMMER  RETREAT  OF  A  SOUTHERN  PLANTER. 

Noonday  sun  fell  in  gorgeous  effulgence  over  a  field  where  long  maize- 
leaves  drooped  like  those  of  the  Indian  banana,  when  salt  sea-breezes  cease 
to  fan  them,  and  vertical  rays  glitter  on  white  rocks,  burn  into  the  bosom  of 
earth,  and  blind  the  eye  of  the  beholder  by  their  intenseness.  But  this  is 
no  tropical  scene.  On  the  declivity  of  a  green  hill-side  rises  a  rude  dwell 
ing,  composed  of  logs,  built  after  the  fashion  of  a  pen.  A  wide  passage 
separates  two  apartments.  This  passage,  or  corridor,  is  floored  with  pine 
boards,  which,  having  been  often  scoured  with  sand  and  the  shucks  of  Indian 
corn,  has  assumed  an  aspect  of  purity  and  whiteness  truly  refreshing.  It 
extends  from  the  front  .to  the  back  of  the  house,  and  whenever  there  is  the 
least  atmospheric  agitation,  here  the  wind  plays  in  cooling  gusts. 

But,  as  before  said,  it  is  noontide  now,  and  stagnation  pervades  all,  both 
within  and  without.  Great  hickory-trees  and  oaks  seem  to  be  sleeping  a 
luxuriant  sleep,  brooded  over  by  the  day-king,  as  purple  wild  grapes  ripen 
in  luscious  clusters  on  tangling  vines,  which  form  untrained  arcades  down  a 
steep  declivity,  terminating  in  a  dingle,  or  branch,  cool,  and  sheltered  by 
tall,  magnificent  pines,  unlike  those  of  the  uplands.  High  wave  their  green 
crests,  in  fine  contrasts  to  rich,  blue,  cloudless  summer  heavens,  dominating  a 
less  stately  growth  of  fragrant  gum-trees,  cedars,  dogwood,  and  black  walnut. 

Here  the  cool  spring-house  is  built  over  a  running  stream;  and  earthen 
pans,  disposed  on  either  side,  are  crusted  over  by  cream,  which  will  to-mor 
row  be  converted  into  healthy  buttermilk  and  yellow  butter,  fresh  and  pure 
as  the  stream  that  wanders  beneath,  and  rich  as  the  golden  sky  that  gleams 
above  them.  A  large  orchard  extends  on  the  right  side  of  the  dwelling. 
There  the  ruddy  peach,  Tyrian  damson  plum,  large  purple  fig,  and  humble 
melon,  lying  on  the  earth,  striped  with  green  and  white,  nestling  under  grass, 
and  its  peculiar  serrated  leaves,  await  the  hand  of  the  gatherer.  Tall  sun 
flowers  rise  amid  these  Southern  productions,  and,  ever  turning  their  atten 
tion  toward  their  potent  lord,  stand  bravely  forth,  as  though  they  said, 
"  Perfect  love  casteth  out  fear."  And  so  they  follow  his  grand  march  over 
the  blue  empyrean  down  to  his  setting,  when,  their  graceful  adieu  being 
made,  they  await  to-morrow's  sunrise  ere,  like  adoring  Persians,  they  turn 
them  to  the  east  and  drink  in  his  morning  light. 


MARY    SCEIMZEOUR    WHITAKEE.  889 

A  large  dog  lies  dozing  in  the  shade  of  a  flower-shaped  catalpa.  Lazily 
he  slumbers,  and  from  gnats  and  flies  occasionally  attempts  to  relieve  him 
self;  flaps  his  huge  ears,  whisks  his  tail,  and  shows  his  glittering  teeth.  A 
lofty  pole,  planted  firmly  in  the  ground,  is  hung  about  with  dry  calabashes, 
each  presenting  an  open  aperture  in  front,  which  has  been  cut  for  the  ad 
mission  of  swallows  and  martins,  these  birds  being  esteemed  as  denizens  of 
a  farm  at  the  South,  for  no  reason  that  I  could  ever  ascertain,  save  that  the 
old  African  crones,  who  preside  over  the  plantations  in  matters  of  supersti 
tious  belief,  reverence  them. 

A  farm  in  South  Carolina  engages  our  attention,  or  rather  the  summer 
residence  of  one  of  her  sometime  princely  planters.  It  was  the  custom  of 
these  gentlemen  to  retire  from  their  plantation,  usually  situated  in  the  low 
country,  at  this  season.  Their  operatives,  of  African  descent,  whose  lineage 
and  constitution  prevented  them  from  incurring  the  least  risk  by  continued 
residence  in  lowland  sections  during  midsummer  heats,  remained  on  rice- 
plantations,  on  the  seaboard  and  in  river-swamps,  where  cotton  was  culti 
vated,  while  their  Anglo-Saxon  masters  sought  refuge  amidst  pine-barren 
wastes  or  on  the  apex  of  elevated  hills. 

The  house  now  introduced  on  the  scene  was  one  in  the  latter-named  region, 
the  dwelling  of  Mr.  Campbell  —  Scotch,  as  his  name  imports,  and  a  true  son 
of  that  land  which  not  only  gives  birth  to  heroes  of  the  sword  and  autocrats 
of  the  great  mental  republic  of  the  world,  but  to  good  citizens,  honest, 
industrious,  and  enterprising,  all  the  world  over.  A  love  of  his  native  land, 
or  at  least  a  memory  of  it,  was  traceable  in  the  objects  which,  on  entering 
either  of  the  apartments  separated  by  the  wide  passage  before  alluded  to, 
met  the  eye.  On  unplastered  walls  were  Highland  scenes,  depicted  with 
graphic  skill.  Falls  of  the  Clyde,  Covalinn,  Tantallon  Castle,  and  Highland 
trosacks  looked  in  speaking  semblance  from  rich  frames ;  and  disposed  on 
tables,  in  the  midst,  were  "  Blackwood,"  the  "  Edinburgh  Eeview,"  and  vari 
ous  periodicals  fraught  with  that  sound  sense  and  discriminating  intelligence 
which  made  Walter  Scott  the  wonder  of  his  age  as  a  novelist,  Thomas  Camp 
bell  the  legitimate  successor  of  Dryden  and  Pope,  and  a  long  line  of  histo 
rians,  orators,  and  statesmen  the  exemplars  of  their  country's  glory. 

Bating  the  indications  stated,  this  was  a  truly  American  establishment,  or 
rather  a  sample  of  Southern  summer  residences  among  the  wealthy.  The 
house,  being  plain  almost  to  rudeness,  did  not  lack  any  accommodation  con 
sonant  with  free  ventilation,  a  warm  season,  comfort,  and  use.  The  stables 
were  as  large  as  the  dwelling,  and  under  one  extended  roof  were  elegant 
vehicles,  English  horses,  and  attendant  grooms,  black  as  ebony,  whistling 
and  happy,  very  cheerfully  performing  the  duties  of  that  fraternity  —  chop 
ping  oats,  currying  sleek  steeds,  or  putting  in  order  trapping  and  harness. 

Around  the  low-built  but  wide  house  were  bare  poles  supporting  a  shed 
covered  with  green  pine  boughs,  which  emitted  a  healthful  odor,  and  when 
dried  in  the  sun  were  removed  and  replaced  by  others  fresh  and  verdant. 


890  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Coral  woodbine  and  many-flowered  convolvulus  with  passion-flower  and 
yellow  jessamine  twine  around  these  rude  posts  and  garland  with  beauty 
their  lofty  pilasters.  Here  humming-birds  expand  gossamer  plumage,  hover 
over  India  creeper,  and  insert  their  long  spiral  bills  into  the  heart  of  each 
fragile  and  fairy  flower.  Great  black  butterflies,  with  silver-spotted  wings, 
flit  from  lilac  and  white  althea  to  scarlet  verbena  beds,  from  forest  honey 
suckle  to  crimson  butterfly-weed,  from  wild  thyme  to  those  unnoted  children 
of  our  American  flora  which  rejoice  in  Southern  suns  and  bloom  like  Eden 
beneath  Southern  dews.  The  grasshopper  sings  his  shrill  song,  the  bluejay 
whisks  amidst  sycamore  leaves,  and  the  speckled  woodpecker  rings  his  horny 
beak  against  decaying  bark,  as,  perched  midway  on  some  ancient  trunk,  he 
plies  his  ceaseless  task.  Yet  there  is  silence.  All  things  own  the  might  of 
heat  —  all  save  wild  songsters  and  the  busy  hostler's  whistle. 

Down  sinks  day's  grand  luminary !  Above  his  evening  couch  is  gathered 
the  glorious  drapery  of  the  skies  drawn  over  a  cerulean  expanse.  His  lin 
gering  beams  shoot  yellow  lustre  over  the  scene.  Shadows  are  being  length 
ened  from  skyey  tops  of  towering  pines  to  the  lower  altitude  of  man's 
dwelling.  That,  with  light,  is  insensibly  withdrawn,  and  soon  the  chick- 
will-willow,  whip-poor-will,  and  night-hawk  raise  their  voices,  while  locusts 
and  katydids  chirp  in  unison,  and  the  harsh-throated  swamp-frog  sends  a 
hoarse  cry  from  the  dingle  below. 


AUTUMN  IN  THE  SOUTH. 

It  was  autumn  now  —  the  poetic  autumn  of  Southern  latitudes.  All  the 
trees  of  the  forest  were  changed  in  hue,  save  live-oaks,  whose  mournful  moss 
swept  the  earth  beneath  their  wide-spreading  branches,  and  sighed  as  autumn 
gales  swayed  their  graceful  drapery  to  and  fro,  and  upright  pines,  with  their 
strong,  tall  trunks  and  plumy  crests,  which  gave  out  a  murmur  resembling 
ocean's  distant  roll,  and  laurel-trees,  consecrated  to  victorious  wreaths,  be 
cause  we  would  vainly  attempt  to  perpetuate  human  renown,  and  seek  its 
symbol  in  "  the  laurel  never  sere."  Bay-leaves  were  richly  spotted,  and  came 
flying  down  at  intervals,  dying,  but  greatly  beautified  by  the  process  of 
decay.  Oaks  were  shrouded  in  crimson  rich  as  a  monarch's  garb.  Sassafras 
and  china-trees  were  golden  yellow.  The  tints  softened  one  into  the  other 
like  colors  in  the  rainbow,  and  everywhere  enlivened  the  forest  and  adorned 
the  uplands  with  a  mellow  grandeur  soon  to  merge  into  winter's  desolation. 
The  great  river,  wandering  in  sunlight,  seemed  to  catch  the  varied  hues  of 
overhanging  vines,  gigantic  trees,  and  many-flowered  shrubs,  which  gar 
nished  and  glorified  its  sinuous  windings,  and  drew  sustenance  from  its 
exhaustless  waters.  Guided  by  nature's  mysterious  instincts,  the  jetty  wild 
duck  floated  slowly  on  Southern  waves,  rejoicing  in  the  plenty  of  abundant 
harvests,  and  avoiding  the  bleak  gales  of  a  less  favored  region.  Bluebirds 


MARY    SCRIMZEOUR    WHITAKER.  891 

were  exultant,  for,  abandoning  the  task  of  initiating  their  young  in  the  mys 
teries  of  airy  flight,  they  dismissed  the  fledglings  to  their  fate,  and,  sitting 
free  on  lofty  branches,  sang  their  farewell  song  to  summer,  while  thrashers 
and  twittering  sparrows  joined  in  the  lay. 

Luscious  were  the  fruits  even  of  uncultivated  nature  in  those  Southern 
lands !  Wild-grape  arbors  wound  about  the  trunks  and  limbs  of  her  forest- 
monarchs,  and  offered  purple  treasures  to  the  hand  of  the  gatherer.  Persim 
mons,  rich  as  the  West-Indian  star-apple,  were  so  abundant  as  to  suggest  the 
idea  of  mere  waste  in  the  river  swamp.  Hickory  nuts  strewed  the  ground 
and  covered  the  overhanging  bough ;  sloes,  black  as  night,  hung  in  clusters 
about  the  way  of  the  wanderer,  and  mellow  maypops  invited  his  hand  ; 
Chincapins  opened  their  thorny  coats,  ready  for  use,  and  haws,  the  apples 
of  the  wilderness,  were  ripe  as  hope  in  its  completion.  Fanlike  palmettos 
and  aromatic  heart-leaves  graced  earth  nearer  its  surface,  where, combined 
with  deer-grass  and  wild  thyme,  honey-weed,  and  wild  sunflower,  a  perfect 
wilderness  of  sweets  delighted  the  senses,  and  carried  imagination  back  to 
primeval  days,  when  the  red  warrior  pursued  his  war-path,  hunted  flying 
game,  launched  his  light  canoe,  built  his  rude  cabin,  and  wooed  his  dusky 
bride,  himself  the  most  picturesque  adjunct  of  the  forest  scene.  Here  arose 
a  green  mound,  the  tomb  of  his  departed  ancestors,  and  occasionally  was 
found  an  arrow-point  of  sharpened  stone,  which  once  winged  its  deathful 
flight  through  these  wilds.  Here  sage  women  of  Indian  tribes,  now  only 
known  by  a  name  unchronicled  in  history,  collected  healing  plants  of  great 
medicinal  virtue,  and  nutritious  fruits,  such  as  the  Indian  potato  and  pal 
metto  cabbage,  which  the  paleface,  in  his  agricultural  wealth  and  ^Escula- 
pian  security,  cares  not  to  note.  Bell-shaped,  sun-colored  jasmines  wildly 
flung  their  fairy-like  arches  over  denuded  trunks  still  standing,  and  forest 
trees  in  all  the  paraphernalia  of  half-clad  branches,  where  the  squirrel  builds 
his  nest  and  the  wild  bee  hives  its  honeyed  treasures.  Here  the  fat  terrapin — 
another  and  delicious  form  of  turtle  —  sprawled  in  luxurious  security  on 
the  congenial  mudbank  where  its  alderman-like  proportions  had  been  ma 
tured,  and  the  opossum  —  choice  game  of  the  negro  —  sleek  and  well  fed, 
was  ready  for  capture.  Partridges,  fresh  from  the  pea-fields,  everywhere 
ripened,  whistled  and  settled  in  whirring  groups,  while  wild  turkeys,  at 
times,  gave  forth  their  peculiar  and  unmistakable  gobble.  Nimble,  alert,  and 
fearful,  the  untamed  deer  peered  through  interstices  and  loop-holes  of  the 
redundant  undergrowth;  but,  with  the  characteristic  timidity  of  its  wild 
race,  vanished  in  an  instant.  A  russet  carpet  of  faded  grass  and  decaying 
leaves  covered  earth's  surface  in  the  swamp,  save  where  a  turbid  mud-tinted 
lagoon  or  a  black  quagmire  broke  the  level  of  the  ground ;  or  a  fallen  trunk, 
once  the  puissant  supporter  of  many-leaved  boughs,  denuded  of  its  honors, 
lay  like  bravery  conquered,  and  under  its  decaying  bark  the  lizard  dwelt, 
and  the  serpent  rolled  its  scaly  length,  like  cunning,  of  which  it  is  the  type, 
seeking  to  disguise  itself  beneath  that  which  bears  no  affinity  to  its  own 
foulness. 


MARGARET  MAXWELL  MARTIN. 

THE  subject  of  this  sketch  was  born  in  Dumfries,  Scotland,  in  1807, 
and  when  eight  years  of  age,  accompanied  her  parents  to  America. 
They  settled  in  North  Carolina,  at  Fayetteville ;  but  afterward  re 
moved  to  the  beautiful  city  of  Columbia,  S.  C. 

In  1836,  she  married  the  Rev.  William  Martin,  of  the  Methodist 
Episcopal  Church,  and  shared  with  him  the  life  of  an  itinerant  mis 
sionary. 

Mrs.  Martin  has  taught  a  large  female  seminary  in  Columbia  for 
nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century.  Her  occupation  has  not  been  writing, 
but  teaching,  which  has  occupied  her  life's  prime.  Conscientiously 
she  felt  that  she  could  not  give  the  Muse  her  strength  —  her  school  had 
first  claims;  consequently,  her  poems  have  been  recreation,  and  her 
themes  chiefly  religious,  for  she  felt  she  owed  God  a  peculiar  debt,  that 
she  could  only  pay  by  devoting  to  Him  her  "  one  talent,"  along  with 
all  else  she  possessed. 

Says  a  friend,  an  author  of  much  reputation  and  honor  to  his  coun 
try  —  William  Gilmore  Simms,  Esq.  : 

"  Mrs.  Martin  partakes  of  the  missionary  spirit  with  her  hushand ;  and, 
while  he  illustrates  the  Scriptures  in  sermons  which  bear  glad  tidings  of 
salvation  to  hungering  souls,  she  clothes  like  lessons  in  the  more  melodious 
garments  of  poesie,  which  appeal  equally  to  the  affections,  the  necessities  and 
tastes 

"  In  her  various  wanderings  as  a  missionary's  wife,  our  author  has  been 
brought  into  neighborhoods  which  should  have  with  us  a  classical  and 
patriotic  distinction.  She  has  sought  out  and  explored  their  place  of  mark, 
and  caught  up  and  woven  into  graceful  verse  or  no  less  graceful  prose  the 
legends  and  the  histories  of  our  colonial  and  Revolutionary  periods.  The  fields 
distinguished  by  the  storm  of  battle,  the  ruins  which  mark  the  decayed  or 
devastated  settlement,  the  noble  heroism  which  makes  obscure  places  famous 
forever  —  these  she  has  explored  with  something  of  the  mood  of  'Old 
Mortality,'  and  with  her  pen  she  has  brightened  the  ancient  memories,  while 
newly  recording  the  ancient  deeds  of  heroism  or  simple  virtue.  We  commend 
her  writings  as  always  possessing  a  value  for  the  reader  who  desires  truth 

892 


MARGARET     MAXWELL    MARTIN.  893 

in  its  simplicity,  character  in  its  purity,  and  heroism  when  addressed  to 
patriotic  objects." 

Among  Mrs.  Martin's  publications  are  "  Day-Spring,"  "  Methodism, 
or  Christianity  in  Earnest,"  "  The  Sabbath-school  Offering,"  a  collec 
tion  of  poems  and  true  stories,  and  two  volumes  of  poetry  —  "Keligious 
Poems  "  and  "  Flowers  and  Fruits."  , 

That  scholarly  lady  and  graceful  writer,  Mrs.  E.  F.  Ellet,  is  the 
author  of  the  following  genial  notice  of  "  Religious  Poems :" 

"  The  author  of  this  book  is  an  accomplished  lady  of  Columbia,  the  wife 
of  a  clergyman  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church.  She  has  for  many  years 
been  engaged  in  teaching,  and  communion  with  the  Muse  has  formed  the 
recreation  of  her  useful  life.  It  is  a  spirit  like  David's,  '  after  God's  own 
heart,'  that  here  outpours  itself  in  melody.  Rare  indeed  is  the  sight  of  a 
mind  attuned  to  all  things  bright  and  lovely  and  tender  and  sweet  in  nature, 
consecrating  all  its  powers  to  the  worship  and  service  of  God.  Such  poems, 
even  were  they  not  marked  by  high  literary  ability,  are  fragments  of  the 
language  of  heaven,  because  they  breathe  the  life  and  illustrate  the  grace  of 
Christianity.  Faith,  childlike  and  pure ;  hope,  exalted ;  love,  ardent  and 
enduring ;  patience,  humility,  and  a  fair  sisterhood  of  virtues,  are  reflected 
in  these  simple  strains.  The  reader  will  feel  a  benign  and  holy  influence 
stealing  into  his  heart,  and  will  find  solace  for  almost  every  pang  '  entailed 
on  human  hearts,'  if  he  reads  with  a  true  sympathy.  It  would  be  a  blessed 
thing  if  our  poetical  literature  were  more  generally  imbued  with  this  fervor 
of  religious  feeling  —  this  deep  love  of  truth. 

"  The  longest  poem  in  the  collection  is  an  epic  of  the  '  Progress  of  Chris 
tianity,'  exhibiting  God's  dealings  with  His  church,  from  the  days  of  the 
apostles  until  now.  The  second  part  of  this  poem  illustrates  the  power 
which  has  accompanied  the  progress  of  the  religion  of  our  Redeemer. 
Viewing  briefly  its  influence  in  Scotland,  the  hallowed  Sabbath  of  the 
Puritans  is  considered,  and  various  pictures  of  human  life  represented,  in 
which  piety  has  triumphed  over  trial,  sorrow,  and  death.  The  following  are 
of  them : 

'  Gaze  on  that  lovely  one :  consumption's  doom 
Is  hastening  her  to  an  untimely  tomb : 
Hers  fortune,  friends,  and  genius ;  yet  all 
Must  yield  her  up  at  Death's  relentless  call  ; 
Fades  day  by  day  the  rose-tint  from  her  cheek, 
And  daily  grows  she  weaker ;  and,  thus  weak, 
Is  she  not  daunted  at  the  approach  of  him  — 
The  "King  of  Terrors,"  horrible  and  grim? 


894  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Will  she  not  shrink  from  his  unyielding  clutch, 

Nor  seek  to  evade  his  blighting,  withering  touch? 

Thus  fragile,  the  last  conflict  will  she  dare? 

Has  she  been  nerved  by  mighty  faith  and  prayer? 

What  words ?     "I 'm  ready  ! "     'T is  her  own  dear  voice ; 

She's  more  than  conqueror  —  rejoice!  rejoice! 

'See  ye  yon  widowed  mother  o'er  the  bier 
Of  her  fair  babe,  so  precious  and  so  dear? 
'T  was  her  sole  solace  since  the  dreadful  day 
When  death  removed  her  partner  and  her  stay : 
This  little  one,  e'en  sleeping  or  awake, 
Sweet  solace  to  the  poor  bereaved  spake. 
It  lay  upon  her  bosom,  and  its  breath 
Was  redolent  of  health  —  none  dreamed  of  death ; 
When  suddenly  't  was  from  the  bosom  torn 
Of  that  fond  mother,  now  indeed  forlorn ; 
Yet  mark  her  faith :  "  The  Lord  is  true  and  just ; 
Although  he  slay  me,  yet  in  him  I  '11  trust ! " ' 

The  remaining  two-thirds  of  the  volume  are  composed  of  "Poems 
by  the  Lamplight,"  as  the  author  felicitously  calls  her  paraphrases  of 
Scripture  passages.  These  are  applied  to  the  incidents  and  interests 
of  daily  and  practical  life.  "  The  Beatitudes "  form  a  series,  and 
seldom  has  sacred  truth  been  more  gratefully  made  familiar  to  the 
soul  than  in  the  stanzas  headed  "  Blessed  are  they  that  Mourn." 


MY  SAVIOUR,  THEE! 

When  the  paths  of  life's  young  morning 
First  I  enter'd  on,  unheeding 

Wisdom's  well-weighed  words  of  warning; 
When  my  feet  were  torn  and  bleeding 
With  the  way,  then  I  was  needing 
My  Saviour,  thee ! 

When  the  bright  sun's  daily  duty 
Lighted  life's  meridian,  beading 

That  life's  slender  thread  with  beauty; 

When,  by  that  light,  I  was  reading 

Life,  then,  oh !  how  I  was  needing 

My  Saviour,  thee ! 


MARGARET    MAXWELL    MARTIN.  895 

When  the  autumn,  mellow,  sombre, 

Came,  with  all  earth's  hopes  receding, 
Casting  shadows  without  number; 

When  the  signs  my  soul  was  heeding, 

Of  that  searing,  I  was  needing 
My  Saviour,  thee ! 

When  shall  come  death's  midnight  awful, 

And  my.  parting  soul  is  deeding 
All  its  sins  and  sorrows  woful 

To  the  past,  dead  past,  when  pleading 

But  thy  merits,  I  '11  be  needing, 
My  Saviour,  thee ! 


MRS.  CATHARINE  LADD. 

name  that  heads  this  article  will  call  a  thrill  of  pleasure  to 
JL  many  hearts  —  for  this  lady  is  "  one  of  the  most  noted  and  suc 
cessful  of  the  teachers  of  the  State  of  South  Carolina,"  and  hundreds 
of  her  old  pupils,  many  of  them  now  "teaching,"  scattered  throughout 
the  land,  remember  her  kindness  and  entire  unselfishness.  *  She  is 
the  most  generous  of  women ;  her  time,  her  talents,  her  worldly  goods 
are  at  the  command  of  all  her  friends,"  says  one  of  her  ex-pupils. 

Mrs.  Ladd  is  a  native  of  Virginia  —  was  born  in  October,  1810  — 
married  when  eighteen  years  old  to  Mr.  Ladd,  a  portrait  and  minia 
ture  painter.  Her  maiden  name  was  Catharine  Stratton. 

For  several  years  after  her  marriage  Mrs.  Ladd  wrote  poetry,  which 
was  published  in  the  various  periodicals  of  the  day.  For  three  years 
she  was  a  regular  correspondent  of  several  newspapers,  and  published 
a  series  of  articles  on  drawing,  painting,  and  education,  which  at 
tracted  considerable  attention. 

In  1842,  Mrs.  Ladd  permanently  settled  in  the  town  of  Winnsboro', 
South  Carolina,  where  she  established  one  of  the  largest  institutions 
of  learning  in  the  State,  which  sustained  its  well-deserved  reputation 
until  closed,  in  1861. 

Mrs.  Ladd  has  contributed  tales,  sketches,  essays,  and  poems  to 
various  journals  under  different  noms  de  plume  —  as  "  Minnie  May 
flower,"  "Arcturus,"  "Alida,"  and  "Morna." 

During  the  existence  of  the  "Floral  Wreath,"  published  in  Charles 
ton  by  Mr.  Edwin  Heriott,  Mrs.  Ladd  was  a  regular  contributor. 
Mr.  Heriott,  in  a  notice  of  the  literary  talent  of  the  South,  speaking 
of  Mrs.  Ladd's  poetical  works,  said :  "  They  were  sweet,  smooth,  and 
flowing,  particularly  so ;  but,  like  Scotch  music,  their  gayest  notes 
were  sad." 

In  1851,  she  with  ardor  took  up  the  subject  of  education,  home 
manufactories,  and  encouragement  of  white  labor,  believing  that  the 
ultimate  prosperity  of  South  Carolina  would  depend  on  it.  She  rea 
soned  from  a  conviction  that  South  Carolina  could  not  long  compete 

896 


CATHARINE     LADD.  897 

with  the  more  Southern  and  Southwestern  States  in  raising  cotton, 
and  an  extensive  system  of  slave  labor  would  realize  no  profit. 

Mrs.  Ladd's  plays,  written  at  the  solicitation  of  friends,  and  per 
formed  by  them,  were  very  popular.  The  "Grand  Scheme"  and 
"  Honeymoon  "  were  celebrated  far  and  .wide.  The  incidents  and  in 
troduction  of  characters  showed  that  she  had  more  than  ordinary 
talent  for  that  species  of  composition.  Mrs.  Ladd  has  a  wonderful 
knack  of  managing  young  people. 

After  the  commencement  of  the  war,  Mrs.  Ladd  gave  up  everything 
to  devote  herself  to  the  cause  of  the  South.  She  lived  for  the  soldiers! 
was  elected  President  of  the  "Soldiers'  Aid  Association,"  which  office 
she  retained  until  the  close  of  the  war,  and  by  her  untiring  exertions 
kept  the  society  well  supplied  with  clothing.  Her  pen  was  unused 
during  the  war,  the  needle  and  her  personal  supervision  being  con 
stantly  in  demand.  In  Winnsboro',  no  church  is  built,  no  charity 
solicited,  no  ball,  concert,  tableaux,  or  fair  —  nothing  goes  on  without 
her  cheerful  and  ever-ready  aid. 

Mrs.  Ladd  is  said  to  be  "homely,"  and  dresses  to  suit  herself,  never 
caring  about  the  "latest  fashions, "  ignores  "hoops,"  and  always  wears 
her  hair  short.  Her  manner  is  abrupt  and  decided;  but  one  instinc 
tively  feels  it  to  be  "  kind." 

The  "Confederate  flag"  is  said  to  have  originated  with  Mrs.  Ladd  ; 
the  first  one,  we  allude  to.  The  fire  of  February  21st,  1865,  destroyed 
the  literary  labor  of  thirty  years.  With  the  assistance  of  a  Federal 
officer,  Mrs.  Ladd  saved  the  jewels  of  the  Masonic  Lodge  in  the  next 
house  to  hers ;  but  the  flame  and  smoke  prevented  her  finding  the 
"  charter."  By  this  time  the  fire  had  got  so  much  ahead  on  her  own 
premises,  and  the  confusion  was  so  great,  that  she  lost  everything. 

It  is  said  that  outside  of  the  walls  of  her  school,  Mrs.  Ladd  was  the 
gay,  social  companion  of  every  young  lady  under  her  charge.  Following 
her  to  the  school-room,  you  instantly  felt  the  change :  though  not  per 
haps  a  word  was  spoken,  every  young  lady  felt  it.  She  has  a  power 
ful  will  and  habit  of  centring  every  thought  and  feeling  instantly  on 
the  occupation  of  the  moment.  The  confusion  of  voices  or  passing 
objects  never  seemed  to  disturb  her  when  writing. 

A  friend  of  Mrs.  Ladd  says:  "Her  quick  motions  show  the  rapidity 
of  thought.     Even  now,  at  the  age  of  fifty-eight,  were  you  walking 
behind  her,  you  might  mistake  her,  from  the  light  buoyancy  of  step, 
for  a  young  girl." 
25 


CLARA  V.  DARGAK 

T71ILLED  with  aspirations  after  the  true  and  the  beautiful — enthusias- 
_L  tic  about  music — with  a  something  so  bright,  so  star-like  about  her 
that  we  conceive  she  must  be  all  that  is  fair  and  "  lovely,  and  of  good  re 
port" —  few  young  writers,  who  have  written  as  much  as  Miss  Dargan, 
have  uniformly  written  so  well,  and  with  so  little  effort.  Says  she,  "If 
I  did  not  write  de  mon  cceur,  I  should  not  be  able  to  write  at  all." 
And  with  study,  close  application  —  obeying  Horace  in  placing  her 
manuscript  aside  for  seven,  years  —  she  must  accomplish  something  that 
the  "  world  will  not  willingly  let  die."  A  writer  who  writes  only  when 
the  spirit  moves,  hurriedly,  often  carelessly,  scarcely  ever  revising  but 
once,  can  hardly  be  expected  to  give  the  world  "  a  masterpiece." 

The  subject  of  this  sketch  was  born  near  Winnsboro',  S.  C.  Her 
father,  Dr.  K.  S.  Dargan,  was  descended  from  an  old  Virginia  family, 
and  was  noted  for  his  extremely  elegant  manners  and  unrivalled  con 
versational  powers.  Her  mother  was  a  native  Charlestonian,  of  French 
Huguenot  blood,  a  remarkably  handsome  and  graceful  lady.  Clara 
inherits  her  mother's  vivacity  and  love  of  repartee,  fondness  for  society, 
her  enthusiasm  and  romance,  and  her  father's  manners  and  conversa 
tional  powers.  For  some  years  the  family  lived  on  a  plantation  in 
Fairfield,  and  removed  to  Columbia  in  1852,  noted  as  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  cities  in  the  whole  country  then!  Alas  that  rage  for  plunder 
and  desire  to  destroy  should  have  been  so  deep-seated  in  the  being  of 
General  William  Tecumseh  Sherman ! 

At  the  capital  of  South  Carolina,  with  the  exception  of  a  year  or 
so,  resided  Miss  Dargan,  until  the  death  of  her  parents,  her  father 
dying  in  1865,  and  the  mother  two  years  afterward,  scattering  the  once 
happy  and  united  family  —  for  with  the  fall  of  the  Confederacy  their 
wealth  vanished. 

Miss  Dargan  was  for  a  time  a  pupil  of  Mrs.  C.  Ladd,  who  says : 
"  She  commenced  writing  when  about  ten  years  of  age.  I  read  a  story 
written  by  her  when  about  eleven  ;  it  was  worthy  of  the  matured  pen 
of  twenty.  Nature  has  endowed  her  with  many  rich  gifts,  which  she 
has  not  failed  to  improve;  the  budding  promise  of  childhood  has 
expanded,  scattering  many  literary  gems  over  her  pathway." 

898 


CLARA    V.    DARGAN.  899 

Her  first  publication  was  a  poem,  "Forever  Thine,"  in  the"Cou- 
rant,"  a  journal  which  flourished  a  brief  time  under  the  editorship  of 
the  lamented  Howard  H.  Caldwell.  It  was  signed  "  Claudia,"  and 
appeared  in  1859.  During  the  following  year  she  wrote  several  stories 
for  the  "  Southern  Guardian,"  published  in  Columbia,  under  the  nom 
de  plume  of  "  Esther  Chesney,"  under  which  name  she  wrote  for  the 
"  Southern  Field  and  Fireside  "  in  1861.  In  this  year  she  was  a  suc 
cessful  competitor  for  the  prize  offered  by  the  "  Field  and  Fireside  " 
for  the  best  novelette — her  story,  "  Helen  Howard,"  sharing  the  honors 
with  a  novelette  entitled  "Our  Little  Annie." 

Encouraged  by  this  success,  she  competed  for  the  prize  offered  by 
the  "  Darlington  Southerner,"  and  was  successful. 

In  1863,  she -edited  the  literary  department  of  the  "  Edgefield  Adver 
tiser,"  then  under  the  control  of  that  elegant  scholar  and  gentleman, 
Colonel  Arthur  Simkins:  his  death  dissolved  her  connection  with 
it.  She  wrote  for  the  "  Field  and  Fireside  "  during  the  war,  and  after 
the  close  of  the  same  was  a  contributor  to  the  "  Crescent  Monthly," 
the  ablest  periodical  ever  published  in  the  South,  which  was  edited 
and  published  in  New  Orleans,  by  William  Evelyn,  for  a  short  time 
only.  In  this  magazine  appeared  "  Philip :  My  Son,"  considered  by 
many  her  best  story.  The  late  Henry  Timrod  said  "  that  he  con 
sidered  it  equal  to  any  story  in  '  Blackwood's.'  " 

Miss  Dargan  never  mixes  "  ego  "  with  her  stories.  They  are  told  so 
naturally  that  the  writer  is  forgotten  entirely  in  the  narrative.  As  far 
as  a  "  title  "  is  an  index  to  a  story,  we  append  the  titles  of  a  few  of  Miss 
Dargan's  tales:  "Nothing  Unusual,"  "Still  Faithful,"  "Coming 
Home,"  "  Come  to  Life,"  "  Judith,"  "  Riverlands." 

"  Charles  Anchester,"  that  delightful  work  of  Miss  Elizabeth  Sara 
Sheppard,  whose  short  life  is  one  of  the  saddest  of  stories,  is  a  great 
favorite  with  Miss  Dargan.  She  considers  it  one  of  the  few  books  that 
can  be  placed  next  to  the  "Holy  Word."  "It  is  a  rare  gem,  an 
amethyst  of  the  richest  purple,  set  in  the  purest  gold,  chastely  carved. 
It  was  and  is  a  text-book  on  more  subjects  than  music  to  me.  So  pure 
and  earnest  and  calm  and  deep !  " 

Says  she,  in  speaking  of  "Mendelssohn's  Songs  :" 

"  All  he  ever  wrote,  is  there  such  music  anywhere,  except  in  heaven  ? 
People  talk  senselessly  about  Italian  operas,  and  English  and  Scotch  and 
Irish  ballads ;  these  are  all  very  well.  I  think  there  is  an  air  or  two  from 
'  Lucia,'  and  one  from  '  Lucretia  Borgia/  and  several  from  '  Ernani,'  that 


900  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

are  beautiful ;   but  none  will  compare  with  those  sublime,  those  soul-full 
creations." 

We  have  noticed  Miss  Dargan's  musical  talents,  and  music  is  a 
highly-developed  talent  in  the  family.  Clara's  two  brothers  and 
sisters  are  not  only  fine  singers,  but  perform  on  several  instruments ; 
and  of  course  she  is  a  poet.  The  critic  and  talented  gentleman,  author 
(among  other  things)  of  a  series  of  articles  on  "Southern  Litterateurs" 
—  Mr.  J.  W.  Davidson,  who  was  Miss  Dargan's  literary  sponsor — says: 
"  I  rank  Miss  Dargan  first  in  promise  among  the  Southern  daughters 
of  song."  In  person,  Miss  Dargan  is  a  tall,  graceful  figure,  good  eye, 
and  expressive  face  when  conversing. 

Said  the  late  Henry  Timrod  :  "  If  simplicity  and  pathos  be  poetry, 
'Jean  to  Jamie'  is  poetry  of  the  most  genuine  stamp.  The  verses 
flow  with  the  softness  of  a  woman's  tears."  (1866.) 


JEAN  TO  JAMIE. 

What  do  you  think  now,  Jamie, 

What  do  you  think  now? 
'T  is  many  a  long  year  since  we  parted : 
Do  you  still  believe  Jean  honest-hearted  — 

Do  you  think  so  now  ? 

You  did  think  so  once,  Jamie, 

In  the  blithe  spring-time : 
"There's  never  a  star  in  the  blue  sky 
That 's  half  sae  true  as  my  Jamie,"  quo'  I  — 

Do  you  mind  the  time? 

We  were  happy  then,  Jamie, 

Too  happy,  I  fear  ; 

Sae  we  kissed  farewell  at  the  cottage  door — 
I  never  hae  seen  you  since  at  that  door 

This  many  a  year. 

For  they  told  you  lies,  Jamie : 

You  believed  them  a' ! 
You,  who  had  promised  to  trust  me  true 
Before  the  whole  world  —  what  did  you  do? 

You  believed  them  a' ! 


CLARA     V.     D  AEG  AN.  901 

When  they  called  you  fause,  Jamie, 

And  argued  it  sair, 

I  flashed  wi'  anger  —  I  kindled  wi'  scorn, 
"Less  at  you  than  at  them ;   I  was  sae  lorn, 

I  couldna  do  mair. 

After  a  bit  while,  Jamie, — 

After  a  while, 

I  heard  a'  the  cruel  words  you  had  said  — 
The  cruel,  hard  words ;  sae  I  bowed  my  head  — 

Na  tear  —  na  smile  — 

And  took  your  letters,  Jamie, 

Gathered  them  a', 

And  burnt  them  one  by  one  in  the  fire, 
And  watched  the  bright  blaze  leaping  higher  — 

Burnt  ringlet  and  a'! 

Then  back  to  the  world,  Jamie, 

Laughing  went  I ; 

There  ne'er  was  a  merrier  laugh  than  mine : 
What  foot  could  outdance  me  —  what  eye  outshine? 

"Puir  fool!"  laughed  I. 

But  I  'm  weary  o'  mirth,  Jamie  — 

'T  is  hollowness  a' ; 

And  in  these  long  years  sin'  we  were  parted, 
I  fear  I  'm  growing  aye  colder-hearted 

Than  you  thought  aval 

I  hae  many  lovers,  Jamie, 

But  I  dinna  care ; 

I  canna  abide  a'  the  nonsense  they  speak  — 
Yet  I  'd  go  on  my  knees  o'er  Arran's  gray  peak 

To  see  thee  ance  mair ! 

I  long  for  you  back,  Jamie, 

But  that  canna  be ; 
I  sit  all  alone  by  the  ingle  at  e'en, 
And  think  o'  those  sad  words :  "  It  might  hae  been  "  — 

Yet  never  can  be! 

D  'ye  think  o'  the  past,  Jamie  ? 

D'ye  think  o'  it  now? 

'Twad  be  a  bit  comfort  to  know  that  ye  did  — 
Oh,  sair  would  I  greet  to  know  that  ye  did, 

My  dear,  dear  Jamie ! 


902  SOUTHLAND    WRITEKS. 


SLEEPING. 

Go  down,  thou  sun,  nor  rise  again ; 
Sink  low  behind  the  purple  hills, 
And  shimmer  over  western  rills, 

And  gild  the  dusky  moor  and  plain. 

Chant  low,  ye  wildwood  birds,  chant  low ; 
The  cooing  ringdove,  so  forlorn, 
Her  parted  mate  as  gently  mourn, 

And  thou,  sad  river,  calmly  flow. 

I  sit  beside  the  mossy  mound 

That  gently  lies  upon  my  dead  ; 
And  violets  wave  above  his  head, 

And  daisies  gem  the  dewy  ground. 

The  willow,  like  a  mourning  veil, 
Waves  quietly  above  my  grief: 
The  very  rustling  of  the  leaf 

Against  the  ruined  garden-pale 

Murmurs  of  him  who  sleepeth  here 
As  sweetly  in  his  narrow  bed, 
With  roses  pressed  beneath  his  head, 

As  if  his  mother's  arms  were  there. 


FLIKTING  WITH  PHILIP.* 

•I  saw  my  boy  growing  rapidly  into  manhood  with  the  growth  of  his  love. 
It  was  the  first  love  of  a  strong  and  passionate  nature,  and  a  young  man's 
first  love  so  seldom  has  root  in  anything  deeper  than  mere  physical  beauty. 
Margaret  Thorpe  was  a  woman  to  infatuate  enthusiastic  natures,  especially 
of  boys  or  very  young  men.  There  was  a  peculiar  fascination  about  her 
rare  loveliness  —  her  manner,  half  childlike,  half  dignified  —  her  winning 
voice,  and  willowy,  graceful  figure.  At  times  I  believed  her  utterly  uncon 
scious  of  Philip's  sentiments  toward  her ;  she  seemed  to  meet  his  impulsive 
demonstrations  so  calmly,  and  look  almost  with  surprise  at  any  sudden  out 
burst  of  earnestness :  but  anon  this  changed;  and  when  I  saw  her  sitting 
with  downcast  eyes  and  drooping  lash  under  the  gaze  which  he  fixed  upon 
her,  listening  with  that  peculiar  manner  she  knew  so  well  to  assume,  and 
*From  "  Philip  :  My  Son,"  (1866.) 


CLAEA    V,    DA  EG  AN.  903 

replying  in  a  voice  so  tenderly  cadenced,  lifting  her  violet  eyes  to  his,  then  I 
knew  she  felt  and  believed  it.  No  woman  could  doubt  such  evidence. 

Philip  seemed  to  grow  taller  and  grander.  There  was  a  pride  in  his  bear 
ing  ;  the  splendid  Antinous-like  head,  the  flashing  eagle  eye,  the  quivering 
finely-cut  nostril,  the  mouth  and  chin  shaped  like  a  woman's  in  its  delicate 
curves  —  all  were  touched  with  new  fire,  undying,  immortal.  As  he  dis 
mounted  from  his  horse  at  the  gate  and  walked  up  the  garden-path  with  his 
stately  step,  I  heard  Margaret,  who  was  watching  him  from  the  window, 
murmur  to  herself,  "  Philip,  my  king  !  "  Long  years  after  I  heard  that  same 
voice,  broken  by  tears,  chaunt  an  exquisite  home-lyric,  bearing  a  similar  bur 
den  of  love  and  pride,  as  she  folded  a  tiny,  white-robed  Philip  in  her  arms. 

They  went  out  often  together,  sometimes  on  horseback,  sometimes  walking. 
On  these  latter  excursions,  Margaret  frequently  carried  a  little  basket  on  her 
arm,  filled  with  sandwiches  and  cake,  and  a  bottle  of  home-made  wine;  and 
Philip  would  take  a  fishing-rod,  while  out  of  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat 
would  peer  the  azure  binding  of  Tennyson,  the  inevitable  and  invariable 
companion  on  all  occasions,  though  I  heard  Philip  declare  laughingly  he 
could  not  comprehend  one  word  from  preface  to  finis  of  the  volume,  except 
the  poem  quoted  daily  to  the  praise  of  his  idol,  "Margaret."  What  all  this 
tended  to  I  could  not  tell.  I  did  not  even  know  if  Philip  had  declared  his 
affection.  Like  one  in  a  dream,  I  was  content  for  all  things  to  go  on  as  they 
had  done,  and  dreaded  a  change :  but  it  came  at  last. 

Late  one  evening  I  was  half  dozing  in  my  arm-chair  by  the  sitting-room 
window.  The  day  had  been  intensely  warm,  and  the  entire  household  ap 
peared  overpowered  by  some  influence  in  the  atmosphere.  Philip  had  rid 
den  off  before  sunset.  I  saw  him  dashing  down  the  avenue  like  one  mad, 
and  presently  Margaret  went  up  stairs  with  her  light  step,  humming,  in  a 
mocking  voice  it  seemed  to  me,  a  foolish  little  French  chanson.  I  had  left 
the  two  very  good  friends,  in  the  veranda,  after  dinner,  Philip  smoking  and 
playing  with  Margaret's  ball  of  gold  thread,  while  she  sat  demurely  netting 
on  that  wonderful  piece  of  work,  half  smoking-cap,  half  turban  ;  but  some 
how,  these  latter  days,  there  was  a  provoking  air  about  Margaret  that  seemed 
at  times  to  goad  Philip  almost  to  desperation.  I  knew  now  she  had  been 
teasing  him  again  —  my  poor  boy,  who  had  never  been  denied  the  smallest 
boon  in  all  his  short,  bright  life. 

From  where  I  sat,  I  could  see  Margaret's  white  dress  gleaming  between 
the  rose-vines  as  she  sat  on  the  steps  of  the  piazza,  half  hid  from  view  by 
thick  clusters  of  multiflora  and  drooping  sprays  of  clematis.  She  had  a 
manuscript  book  in  her  hand  —  while  her  chin  rested  in  the  palm  of  the 
other,  and  her  head  was  bowed  in  deep  revery.  There  was  a  step  on  the 
gravel,  and  I  heard  her  say,  without  raising  her  head,  "  Come  here,  Philip ! 
I  have  something  to  read  to  you ;"  and  she  read  in  alow,  steady  monotone, 
peculiarly  impressive  in  its  exquisite  modulation  —  flowing  on  like  the 
sound  of  water  afar  off.  .... 


904  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

She  stopped,  and  it  seemed  like  the  breaking  of  a  dream.  Philip  sat  at  hei 
feet:  I  could  not  see  his  face,  but  I  heard  his  quick  breath  come  and  go,  ad 
if  he  panted  for  relief. 

"  Margaret,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  "  don't  torture  me !  " 

"Torture  you,  Philip?" 

"  Yes,  you  know  you  do !  Margaret,  you  have  won  me  with  your  syren 
songs,  and  now  you  wreck  me  without  a  shadow  of  remorse  or  feeling." 

"  It  is  not  my  fault  that  you  love  me ;  I  never  encouraged  you." 

"  Not  your  fault !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  that  passionate,  uncontrollable  man 
ner  which  he  so  often  used  of  late.  "Not  your  fault?  Did  you  not  look 
up  into  my  face  with  those  beautiful  eyes,  and  say  plainly  with  them,  strain 
and  again,  that  you  accepted  my  love?  Did  you  not  flatter  me  with  every 
cadence  of  your  voice,  every  smile  so  deadly  sweet,  to  believe  that  you  knew 
and  requited  it?  And  now  you  call  me  to  fawn  at  your  feet,  and  listen  to 
verses  you  knew  would  craze  my  very  brain,  and  say  it  is  not  your  fault  that 
I  love  you !  Oh,  Margaret !  Margaret !  " 

"  Philip,  you  wrong  me.     Listen,  for  I  will  speak  — 

He  interrupted  her  with  a  gesture  eloquent  of  despair.  "  Don't,  Marga 
ret  !  I  know  you  are  going  all  over  those  cruel  words  again  —  about  my  being 
younger  than  you,  and  how  I  surprise  you,  and  the  utter  absurdity.  All 
those  words  mean  nothing  to  me.  I  don't  believe  any  of  it !  Just  tell  me 
now,  once  and  forever,  do  you  not  love  me  at  all  —  not  at  all  ?  " 

He  leaned  forward  eagerly,  and  caught  her  hand.  There  was  a  brief 
silence ;  and  I  waited  to  hear  Margaret  Thorpe  speak.  She  only  said,  in  a 
half-suppressed,  breathless  way,  "  I  am  engaged." 

I  could  not  endure  it.  I  rose  from  my  seat  and  went  out  into  the  piazza, 
where  the  moon,  lately  risen,  shed  her  clear,  pure  light  over  the  two  figures 
on  the  steps ;  and  I  saw  my  boy  sitting  there  as  one  stunned,  looking  straight 
into  the  false  face  before  him  —  so  fair,  and  yet  so  false. 

"  Margaret  Thorpe,"  I  said,  "  may  God  deal  with  you  as  you  have  dealt 
with  my  son." 


FADETTE. 

THE  author  of  "  Ingemisco  "  is  a  niece  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Palmer,  of 
the  old  Circular  Church  of  Charleston  ;  consequently,  a  cousin  of 
his  nephew,  the  present  Dr.  Palmer,  of  New  Orleans,  to  whom  her  book 
is  dedicated.    "  Ingemisco  "  was  published  by  Blelock  &  Co.,  New  York, 
1867.     To  quote  from  one  of  the  poet  critics  of  our  "  Southland  :  "  * 

"  '  Ingemisco '  is  the  tale  of  a  travelling  party  in  Germany.  Some  of  the 
descriptions  are  very  able,  picturesque  in  scenery-painting,  and  nervously 
sketched.  The  scene  of  the  danger  and  rescue  in  the  Alpine  storm  is 
admirable.  The  style  is  good,  very  fair  indeed,  with  only  a  touch  of  femi 
nine  affectation,  which  will  wear  off  as  she  writes  more.  There  is  plenty 
of  that  sweet  glimmer  and  soft  air-music  of  romance  which  we  miss  so  much 
in  most  of  the  fiction  of  modern  days ;  and  much  that  reminds  of  the  pleas 
ant  mirth  and  genial  love  that  charm  us  so  gladscmely  in  'Quits'  and  the 
'  Initials.'  There  is  a  wild  legend,  too,  told  by  the  Swiss  peasant-girl,  Luise, 
of  the  ancient  monastery  and  the  anchorite's  cave,  which  are  connected  with 
the  fate  of  Margaret  Boss,  the  heroine  of  the  present  tale.  It  is  worthy  of 
the  wonderful  legendary  lore  of  old  Deutschland,  and  is  well  told.  It  is 
something,  in  these  dull,  unbelieving  days,  to  catch  into  the  nostrils  of  the 
soul  a  breath  of  the  witching  fragrance  of  those  delicious  old  superstitions ; 
and  I  bless  the  charming  craftswoman  that  she  has  allowed  this  quaint  em 
broidery  of  Sir  Walter's  magic  mantle  to  linger  on  her  fair  shoulder.  Thank 
heaven,  there  is  no  pedantry  1  It  is  all  true  woman  throughout,  with  not  a 
bit  of  the  blue-stocking,  only  traces  in  plenty  of  close  and  artist-like  obser 
vation  in  travel  and  taste  in  reading.  Knowledge  is  never  obtruded.  It  is 
a  great  relief  in  these  days  to  read  clear  English,  unbroken  by  huge  scientific 
technicalities  or  mythological  allusions  ad  nauseam,  as  if  the  reader  were  to 
be  put  to  school  again  through  the  medium  of  a  book  pretending  to  be  one 
of  amusement. 

"  The  characters  are  well  conceived,  and  painted  with  great  power.  I  mean 
the  two,  the  only  ones  we  ever  care  a  button  about  in  a  real  warm  romance 
of  love.  Margaret  is  a  proud,  high-souled  woman,  a  superb  nature,  with  a 
world  of  tenderness  in  her  heart,  but  with  a  world  of  scorn  for  any  baseness, 
even  though  born  of  passionate  love  for  her.  The  wrong  done  her  by  her 
lover  in  marrying  her  against  her  will,  thus  forcing  her  to  break  her  plighted 

*  C.  Woodward  Hutson. 

905 


906  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

word,  rouses  her  strong  nature,  and  shows  the  true  woman  better  than  almost 
any  other  trial  of  trust  could  show  that  wonderful  mechanism  of  the  affec 
tions.  Her  Ernst,  the  gallant  Polish  exile,  Count  Zalkiewski,  despite  his 
one  great  error,  for  which  he  paid  so  dearly  in  her  heart's  estrangement  from 
him,  is  a  noble  being,  and  interests  the  reader  deeply.  It  is  truly  a  wonder 
ful  book  for  the  first.  Much  as  1  admire  it,  it  is  not  half  so  good  as  she  is. 
That  winter  visit  I  made  to  the  great  river  region  is  bright  in  my  memory 
with  many  a  picture  of  the  pleasant  and  hospitable  homes  of  transplanted 
Carolina  families.  Among  those  carefully  kept  visions  of  a  most  charming 
tour,  not  the  least  refreshing  is  that  which  was  lit  by  the  smile  of  one  who 
is  now  a  princess  in  Parnassus.  As  I  read  her  book  I  could  not  but  rejoice 
that  so  true  a  heart-tale  was  written  by  neither  Titanide  nor  Encyclopsede, 
but  by  a  quiet,  natural  maiden,  sweet  and  modest  as  the  violet  she  loves." 

The  "  Round  Table,"  New  York,  in  a  review  of  "  Ingemisco,"  con 
cludes  by  saying: 

"  As  a  whole,  this  book  contains  so  much  that  gives  promise  of  future  excel 
lence,  that  we  hope  the  authoress  will  not  shrink  from  that  steadfast  and 
patient  toil  which  alone  can  insure  her,  in  the  sequel,  that  enviable  position 
to  which,  no  doubt,  she  aspires." 

Another  Northern  reviewer  says  : 

"  This  book,  if  we  do  not  greatly  mistake,  marks  the  advent  of  a  new  and 
very  conspicuous  star  in  the  firmament  of  letters.  '  Ingemisco '  is  an 
exceedingly  clever  performance  iii  itself,  and  involves  a  promise  of  richer 
fruits  in  the  future.  The  plot  is  conceived  with  originality  and  developed 
with  skill,  the  characters  are  drawn  with  a  bold  and  symmetrical  pencil,  the 
descriptions  of  still  life  are  painted  with  peculiar  gorgeousness  of  coloring, 
the  dialogue  is  animated,  and  some  of  the  situations  strikingly  dramatic,  and 
the  work  is  illuminated  throughout  with  those  subtle  glimpses  of  scholarship 
which  signalize  a  genuine  culture  as  contradistinguished  from  the  inapposite 
sputter  of  encyclopaedic  empiricism.  We  wish  to  mark  this  last  statement 
with  the  stress  of  a  strong  emphasis.  In  casually  turning  over  the  leaves  of 
this  book,  the  eye  cannot  fail  of  catching  brief  and  pertinent  citations  from 
the  most  beautiful  things  in  French,  Italian,  and  German  literature,  and 
occasionally — as  if  with  a  hand  deliberately  restrained — from  the  ancient 
classics.  In  every  instance,  these  citations  are  exactly  and  nicely  appropriate 
to  the  person,  the  situation,  and  the  circumstances  —  are,  in  short,  an  unpre 
meditated  outburst  of  the  author's  culture,  at  the  point  where  they  sponta 
neously  arise,  and  not  an  unnaturally  contrived  occasion  for  a  palpably 
meretricious  display.  To  say  of  a  young  American  author  that  he  brings 
to  his  initial  effort  in  the  department  of  fiction  a  highly-cultivated  mind,  is 
to  mark  an  exceptional  advantage,  whose  influence  is  second  only  to  the 


FADETTE.  907 

possession  of  genius.  But  this  last  great  quality  is  really  the  dominating 
feature  of  this  book.  It  appears  in  every  page,  equally  attested  by  colloquy, 
characterization,  or  description.  In  the  very  first  chapter  there  is  a  descrip 
tion  of  an  Alpine  storm,  in  which  the  life  of  the  heroine  is  almost  hopelessly 
involved,  which  we  do  not  hesitate  to  affirm  is  one  of  the  finest  we  have  ever 
perused,  notwithstanding  the  subject  is  equally  attractive  and  familiar,  and 
has  exercised  all  manner  of  pens,  from  the  '  Great  Unknown '  to  that  vast 
company  of  little  ones  who  yearly  travel  the  road  to  oblivion,  and  contribute 
to  the  manufacture  of  trunks. 

"  '  Ingemisco'  will  remind  every  discriminating  reader  of  those  beautiful 
creations  which  shed,  a  few  years  ago,  a  splendid  but  fugitive  halo  around 
the  world  of  letters  — '  Initials '  and  '  Quits.'  It  is  conceived  mainly  in 
the  same  vein  as  these  charming  productions.  But  the  pen  of  '  Fadette '  is 
clearly  distinguished  from  that  of  the  gifted  daughter  of  Lord  Erskine,  and 
is,  in  no  respect  that  we  can  discover,  imitative.  On  the  contrary,  its  indi 
viduality  asserts  itself  constantly,  almost  to  the  degree  of  harshness.  We 
mention  the  resemblance  in  question  only  to  indicate  what  seems  to  us  the 
great  fault  of  this  book.  The  writer  has  attempted  to  condense  an  interesting 
story  and  a  book  of  travels  into  the  same  volume.  This  will  not  do;  it  never 
has  done.  And,  so  long  as  a  person  engaged  in  the  perusal  of  a  narrative 
dramatically  conceived  and  evolved  must  consider  it  a  nuisance  to  be  abruptly 
interrupted  by  substituting  a  book  of  travels  (however  well  written)  for  the 
one  in  his  hands,  it  never  will  do.  No  examples,  however  distinguished,  can 
justify  such  a  departure  from  the  fundamental  laws  of  art.  A  novelist  is 
entitled  to  incorporate  into  his  story  just  so  much  of  the  merely  outward 
conditions  of  the  selected  theatre  of  his  fable  as  is  indispensably  necessary  to 
the  illustration  of  the  supposed  facts  thereof:  if  he  go  beyond  this,  he  is 
irrelevant  —  the  interest  flags  —  Homer  sings  of  ships — the  reader  sleeps. 

"  With  this  exception,  we  have  only  commendation  for  this  admirable  book ; 
and  we  cordially  greet —  shall  we  say,  the  fair  authoress,  as  her  nom  de  plume 
implies?  —  into  the  'magic  circle'  where  fairies  dance  upon  the  greensward 
and  imagination  weaves  into  forms  palpable  and  real  the  colors  of  the 
rainbow." 

"Randolph  Honor"  was  published  by  Richardson  &  Co.,  ISTew 
York,  (1868,)  and  was  cordially  welcomed  by  the  reading  world  and 
literary  journals.  The  " Round  Table"  said : 

"  In  '  Randolph  Honor '  w e  have  pictures  of  life  which  are  not  wanting  in 
power,  and  descriptions  of  scenery  drawn  with  truth  and  delicacy.  The  story 
is  not  sensational,  and  its  moral  tone  is  unexceptionable ;  but  the  plot  is 
meagre,  and  the  great  difficulties  of  character-painting  the  authoress  has  not 
yet  mastered 

"  In  this  work,  as  in  '  Ingemisco,'  there  appears  so  fair  a  promise  of  future 


908  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

excellence,  that  we  feel  justified  in  saying  that  the  young  authoress  who 
produced  them  is  capable,  with  increased  cultivation  and  mature  thought,  of 
achieving  something  much  better  than  she  has  yet  offered  to  the  public." 

And  the  "poet  critic"  must  have  his  delightful  talk  about  this 
delightful  second  book  recorded  : 

'"Randolph  Honor'  is  a  marked  improvement  on  'Ingemisco.'  The 
characters  are  ably  drawn  ;  and,  what  is  particularly  pleasant  in  this  age  that 
gives  us  spasmodic  portraitures  for  real  dramatic  delineation,  they  are  ladies 
and  gentlemen.  The  story  is  of  the  war,  and  is  staunchly  Southern,  true  to 
the  ring  of  those  noble  tones  that  died  away  only  when  smothered  in  blood. 

"  The  style  is  faulty.  It  is  injured  by  a  somewhat  glaring  mannerism, 
resulting  from  a  tendency  to  poetic  inversion  in  the  mode  of  expression. 
But  this  blemish  will  wear  away  as  the  young  writer  grows  in  practice.  She 
is  certainly  versatile.  This  last  work  is  totally  different  from  'Ingemisco.' 
She  is  clear,  so  far,  of  that  vice  of  the  too  rapidly  productive  writers  of  fiction, 
whose  novels  troop  out  from  the  publishing-houses  in  such  numbers  we  can 
not  keep  the  run  of  them  —  she  does  not  repeat  herself.  There  is,  too,  great 
variety  in  the  story,  and  frequent  changes  of  the  locality,  perhaps  too  fre 
quent  for  the  maintenance  of  the  spell  upon  the  reader ;  for  the  attachment 
we  form  for  places  in  actual  life  we  carry  with  us  into  our  ideal  life,  and  we 
like  fiction  to  hallow  for  us  certain  spots  in  association  with  the  persons  of 
the  story  who  have  won  our  liking,  and  not  remove  us  too  capriciously  from 
the  scenes  thus  endeared  to  us. 

"  This  principle  is  violated  here.  We  are  hurried  from  the  charming 
Maryland  manor-house,  Randolph  Honor,  to  Baltimore ;  from  Baltimore  to 
the  Steamer  '  St.  Nicholas,'  (the  capture  of  which,  by  the  way,  is  graphically 
described) ;  from  there  and  thereabouts  to  Charleston ;  from  Charleston  to 
Arkansas  ;  and  from  Arkansas  to  all  sorts  of  places  —  the  prairies  and  else 
where.  But  the  novelty  of  scenery  and  of  mode  of  life,  I  must  say,  compen 
sate  in  a  great  measure  for  the  distracted  feeling  one  experiences  in  this  flit 
ting  to  and  fro.  The  dramatic  action  is  full  of  fire  and  motion.  The  lady  is 
loved  to  the  heart's  content  of  the  reader  bent  on  his  heroine's  being  duly  hon 
ored.  The  young  men  are  dashing  cavaliers,  worthy  of  the  sunny  soil  they  fight 
for ;  and  '  Miss  Charley'  is  a  dashing  damsel,  much  nearer  to  Joan  of  Arc  and 
the  Maid  of  Saragossa  than  Dr.  Simms'  famous  swamp-rider, '  Hurricane  Nell.' 
The  life  in  the  West  is  a  fine  picture,  and  shows  up  well  the  strong  contrasts 
of  culture  and  roughness  in  a  country  of  comparatively  recent  settlement. 
The  darkey  wedding  is  pleasantly  described,  and  the  feudal  picture  it  pre 
sents  of  mutual  good  feeling  between  beneficent  suzerain  and  attached 
retainers,  readily  recognized  by  us,  who  have  lived  under  the  system,  as  truth 
itself,  will  do  well  to  put  alongside  the  present  rancorous  hate  that  glows  fron? 
the  pages  of  such  as  Helper  of  '  No-Joque.' 


FADETTE.  909 

"  Need  I  say  to  you  who  have  read  the  earlier  work  that  the  poetic  soul  of 
this  lady  delights  in  the  sweet  tenderness  and  fragrance  and  the  bright  bloom 
of  the  out-door  world,  which  ought  always  to  lift  our  hearts  to  the  God  who 
made  it  so  lovely  for  us.  Yes,  she  loves  the  good  creatures  that  are  so  elo 
quent,  though  to  the  material  organ  they  may  seem  dull.  She  is  of  those 
'  Sunday  children '  who  have  the  poetic  instinct,  and  to  whom  nothing  that 
the  Divine  artist  has  made  is  ever  mute.  Nature,  with  all  its  fulness  of 
life  and  light  and  freshness,  she  dearly  loves;  and  the  blessed  beauty  and 
radiance  and  vocal  melody  with  which  it  surges  on  the  soul  in  a  thousand 
soft  wavelets  of  light  and  scent  and  sound,  rippling  rare  undertones  of  har 
mony  into  the  dreamy  recesses  of  the  heart,  draw  from  her  ever  and  anon 
tributes  of  love  and  praise,  and  a  glad  poetic  dallying  with  its  wondrous 
richness  in  change  and  varying  form." 

"  Ingemisco  "  was  written  with  no  idea  of  publication  —  merely  to 
lighten  some  heavy  hours  of  the  war-time  for  the  author's  home 
circle  ;  and  "  Randolph  Honor,"  though  with  imaginary  characters, 
is,  regarding  war-incidents,  drawn  from  sketches  of  that  which  came 
within  the  author's  own  experience  or  knowledge. 

"  Fadette's  "  last  publication  bears  the  imprint  of  Claxton,  Remsen 
&  Haffelfinger,  and  is  called  "Sea-Drift."  Further  than  that,  "  Fa- 
dette"  is  a  native  of  South  Carolina;  her  name  "  we  dinna  care  to  tell," 
but  rest  assured  she  cannot  long  remain  masked. 

Having  told,  in  the  language  of  others,  what  her  prose  is,  we  will 
let  her  poetry  tell  its  own  tale. 


A  PRAYER. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts!  we  lift  our  heart  to  Thee! 

Our  straining  eyes  lift  vainly  toward  Thy  throne ; 

Earth's  mists  and  shadows  are  so  mighty  grown, 
The  gleam  of  seraph  wings  we  no  more  see. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts!  we  lift  our  heart  to  Thee! 
Our  hands  are  fettered  down  by  galling  chains  — 
No  more  the  sceptre  in  our  grasp  remains  — 

Beneath  the  yoke  we  pass,  with  Liberty. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts !  we  lift  our  heart  to  Thee ! 

Our  brows  are  bowed  beneath  Thy  crown  of  thorn ; 

'T  is  heavy  with  the  blood  of  those  we  mourn, 
It  darkles  with  the  life-blood  of  the  free. 


910  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts!  we  lift  our  heart  to  Thee! 
A  ceaseless  moan  wails  on  in  breeze  of  morn, 
Through  all  the  busy  din  of  day  upborne, 

And  when  the  gloaming  broodeth  o'er  the  sea. 

O  God  of  Hosts!  turn  Thou  and  hear  that  moan  — 
No  Southern  lips  are  strangers  to  its  sound, 
And,  shuddering,  in  the  merry  frolic's  round 

Our  prattling  children  catch  its  monotone. 

Strong  men  weep  now,  who  never  wept  before; 

Girl-voices  sorrow  loud  and  passionate; 

Black-stoled  women  yearning  at  Thy  gate ; 
Prayer-worn  lips  quiver,  faded  eyes  brim  o'er. 

Thy  gate  —  it  is  the  only  open  door — 
Where  standeth  Azrael,  beckoning  one  by  one, 
By  which  we  leave,  our  pilgrim-goal  being  won, 

This  drear  God's  Acre,  crimson-drenched  in  gore. 

Each  lowly  grave  our  mountains  proudly  mark  — 
Death  seared  the  land  throughout  with  fiery  tread : 
O  Thou  who  gavest  tears  to  Lazarus  dead, 

Behold,  our  mother-country  lieth  stark. 

It  is  too  late  for  us  to  raise  or  save  — 
We  struggled  with  the  blood-hound  at  her  throat, 
We  saw  his  savage  glare  above  her  gloat : 

Teach  us  to  kneel,  O  God,  beside  her  grave ! 

Teach  us  to  kneel  —  to  Thee  alone,  O  God ! 
The  tyrant  fain  would  spurn  us  at  his  feet  — 
The  gore  upon  our  mother's  winding-sheet 

Would  brand  us  murderers,  trickling  through  the  sod. 

Teach  us  to  kneel  —  teach  us  to  pray,  O  God ! 
Not  for  revenge  —  for  vengeance  is  Thine  own  — 
But  that  Thou  hear  our  ceaseless  suppliant  moan, 

And  that  Thou  see  we  bow  beneath  Thy  rod. 

Lord  God  of  Hosts !  do  Thou  lift  up  our  hearts ! 

Let  them  not  lower  'neath  our  fetters'  weight; 

Let  not  our  war-worn  heroes  cringe  to  fate, 
Nor  barter  honor  in  the  foe's  full  marts. 


FADETTE.  911 

The  laurels  in  God's  Acre  shelter  Thou — 
Let  still  the  people's  patriotic  tears 
Wash  from  their  shining  crests  the  dust  of  years, 

And  dews  from  heaven  vivify  each  bough. 

Oh,  garner  Thou  the  lowlier  flowers  that  rest 

Beneath  the  sod  until  Thou  bid  them  rise ! 

Receive  them,  meet  and  deathless  sacrifice, 
And  take  them,  gracious  Father,  to  Thy  breast. 

Break  Thou,  Lord  God,  our  Captive's  lengthening  chain, 
Wherewith  the  foe  hath  him  and  Freedom  bound ; 
From  deep  to  deep  its  clanking  doth  resound  — 

Our  hearts  beat  heavy  to  its  dull  refrain. 

Hear  Thou  his  prayer,  to  whom  alone  he  prays ; 

In  loving  mercy  guard  his  widowed  wife ; 

With  honor  hedge  his  orphaned  children's  life ; 
Untarnished  keep  Thou  aye  his  hard-won  bays. 

Lord  God !  to  Thee  with  him  our  heart  we  give : 
O  Thou !   who  heardest  Mary's  stricken  moan, 
Roll  from  our  mother's  grave  the  sealed  stone  — 

Say  to  the  dead  within,  "  Come  forth,  and  live  I " 


ANNIE  M.  BARNWELL. 

MISS   BARNWELL  is  one  of  the  youngest  of  our  "  Southland 
Writers,"  and  one  who  desires  to  make  "  literature  "  her  profes 
sion. 

Annie  M.  Barmvell  is  a  native  of  Beaufort,  S.  C.,  the  eldest  daugh 
ter  of  Thomas  Osborn  Barnwell  —  until  the  war,  a  planter  of  that 
place.  She  was  educated  entirely  in  the  quiet  town  of  her  birth,  and, 
until  the  war,  had  seldom  quitted  it. 

From  earliest  childhood  she  was  passionately  fond  of  reading,  and 
the  world  of  books  was  a  delightful  reality  to  her.  Her  life  has  been 
spent  in  a  narrow  circle ;  and,  until  the  war,  it  was  a  very  quiet  one ; 
but  no  Southerner  can  have  passed  through  the  last  eight  years  with 
out  thinking  and  feeling  deeply  and  passionately. 

Although  fond  of  writing  from  childhood,  noted  as  the  best  compo 
sition  writer  in  school,  she  never  published  anything  until  1864,  when 
a  poem  appeared  in  a  local  journal.  In  the  spring  of  1866,  encour 
aged  by  the  approval  of  Rev.  George  G.  Smith,  of  Georgia,  she  wrote 
for  publication  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "Leroy,"a  name  chosen 
as  a  slight  tribute  of  love  and  respect  to  the  memory  of  one  who  holds 
the  first  place  on  her  list  of  friends,  the  late  accomplished  Dr.  Leroy 
H.  Anderson,  of  Gainesville,  Alabama. 

Under  this  signature  she  has  been  a  frequent  contributor  to  "  Scott's 
Magazine,"  (Atlanta,)  and  the  "  Land  we  Love,"  (Charlotte,  N.  C.) 
To  the  kind  and  generous  conduct  of  General  D.  H.  Hill,  editor  of 
the  latter-named  magazine,  Miss  Barnwell  owes  much,  for  it  encour 
aged  her  to  persevere  in  her  intention  of  becoming  an  author,  when 
the  difficulties  which  lie  in  the  path  of  every  beginner  would  other 
wise,  perhaps,  have  frightened  her  into  turning  back. 

Miss  Barnwell's  style  is  easy  and  graceful,  with  the  fault  of  young 
writers  generally,  using  the  "  adjectives  "  profusely.  Her  most  ambi 
tious  effort  is  a  tale,  entitled  "  Triumphant,"  which  we  hope  may  be 
the  beginning  of  many  triumphs  in  the  path  she  has  chosen.  She  re 
sides  in  Beaufort. 

912 


ANNIE    M.    BARNWELL.  913 


THE  BARNWELLS  OF  SOUTH  CAROLINA. 

Look  forth  on  yonder  field !  Lit  by  the  first  rays  of  an  October  sun,  two 
armies  may  be  seen  prepared  for  battle.  On  the  slope  of  the  hill  rests  mo 
tionless  a  host,  over  whom  floats  a  glittering  banner,  with  the  device  of  a 
warrior  worked  in  gold  and  enriched  with  flashing  jewels.  Upon  the  oppo 
site  eminence  the  rival  army  is  drawn  up  in  stern  array,  awaiting  the  con 
flict,  and  eager  to  bear  forward  "  the  three  lions  of  Normandy."  A  sudden 
shout  of  "God  help  us!"  and  they  dash  onward  to  the  fray.  From  the  hill 
side  that  shout  is  answered  by  the  Saxon  war-cry,  "God's  Rood!  Holy 
Rood !  "  and  the  battle  is  begun.  Higher  and  higher  the  sun  rises  o'er  that 
fierce  and  bloody  scene.  Now,  right,  perched  on  the  banner  of  the  golden 
warrior,  seemed  about  to  triumph ;  but  anon  it  is  borne  back,  and  the  part 
ing  beams  of  the  day-god  rest  on  the  three  lions,  floating  in  solitary  pride 
o'er  the  hard-fought  field  of  Hastings.  The  golden  warrior  trails  in  the 
dust,  where  among  his  lifeless  defenders  lies  the  bloody  corpse  of  Harold, 
"the  last  of  the  Saxon  kings."  The  mighty  hand  of  Norman  William 
grasped  the  contested  prize,  and  the  fair  realm  of  "Merrie  England"  is  the 
spoil  of  the  conqueror.  Among  his  followers  is  one  who  bears  the  name  of 
Barnevelt  or  Barnewall,  ancestor  of  the  present  family  of  Barnwell. 

And  now  turn  from  this  scene  of  conflict,  and  follow  to  the  shores  of  the 
Emerald  Isle.  In  the  midst  of  a  group  of  mail-clad  warriors  and  fierce  bar 
barians,  stands  a  fair-haired  maiden,  daughter  and  heiress  of  the  savage 
monarch,  Dermot  Mac  Morrough,  king  of  Leinster.  It  is  her  nuptials  which 
are  being  celebrated  in  sight  of  blood  and  death,  and  her  spouse  is  yon  dark 
leader  of  the  Norman  knights,  Richard  de  Clare,  Earl  of  Strigul ;  better 
known  as  Strongbow.  Among  the  knights  who  with  him  made  Ireland  their 
home,  was  Sir  Michael  de  Barnewell,  founder  of  the  houses  -of  Kingsland 
and  Trimblestone. 

Queen  Elizabeth  sits  alone,  with  a  picture  in  her  hand.  It  represents  sev 
eral  youthful  and  high-born  gentlemen,  grouped  together,  with  a  motto 
beneath,  asserting  that  a  common  object,  a  common  danger  is  their  bond  of 
union.  Well  knows  the  queen  that  this  object  is  her  assassination,  and  the 
restoration  of  the  Roman  Catholic  religion,  by  raising  Mary,  the  captive 
Queen  of  Scotland,  to  the  English  throne.  Closely  she  studies  each  form 
and  feature,  that  they  may  not  approach  her  unknown  and  unheeded.  Fore 
most  in  the  group  is  Anthony  Babington,  and  beside  him  stands  young  Barn- 
well,  companion  in  arms  of  Strongbow. 

Who  has  not  pictured  to  himself  the  fatal  30th  of  January,  when  the 

grave,  sad  face  of  Charles  I.  looked  forth  for  the  last  time  upon  the  realm 

of  which  he  was  the  sovereign  —  then  was  laid  calmly  on  the  block,  while  he 

murmured  his  last  word,  "  Remember !  "     Who  has  not  thought  of  his  bigot 

26 


914  SOUTHLAND    WEITEES. 

son,  pining  in  a  foreign  land  for  the  crown  his  own  conduct  had  lost.  Faith 
ful  to  the  house  of  Stuart,  the  Barnwells  forfeited  wealth  and  power  in  their 
defence,  as  did  so  many  of  the  Irish  nobles. 

The  daylight  is  slowly  waning  in  the  depths  of  a  mighty  forest.  With 
stealthy  tread  a  band  of  bronzed  and  stalwart  men  pass  beneath  the  over 
hanging  branches.  Among  them  are  seen  tall,  erect,  sinewy  forms,  their 
natural  copper  hue  almost  lost  in  the  gaudy  paint  with  which  they  are  cov 
ered.  Soldiers  the  band  surely  are ;  yet  no  plume  waves  in  the  breeze,  save 
the  feathery  tops  of  the  dark  and  mournful  pines,  and  strange  bunches  of 
stiff,  ungraceful  feathers,  stuck  in  the  black  hair  of  the  wild  red-men.  The 
hunter's  unerring  rifle  takes  the  place  of  sword  and  spear,  and  steel  helmet 
and  glittering  armor  are  alike  unseen.  But  the  foemen — where  are  they? 
Lurking  behind  the  giant  trees,  crouching  low  in  the  thick  underbrush,  the 
sudden  whistle  of  the  poisoned  arrow,  as  it  speeds  its  unerring  flight  to  the 
heart  of  some  brave  soldier,  alone  attests  their  presence.  Surely  here,  in 
this  wild  scene,  speaking  of  a  new  and  yet  unsettled  land,  can  be  found  no 
scion  of  the  proud  old  Norman  stock !  Yet,  in  the  veins  of  yon  bold  leader 
of  that  sturdy  band  floHvs  the  blood  of  him  who  fought  at  Hastings.  Colo 
nel  John  Barnwell  had,  at  an  early  age,  embraced  the  Protestant  faith,  and, 
being  discarded  by  his  stern' sire,  sought  a  home  on  the  smiling  sea-coast  of 
South  Carolina.  Amid  the  forests  of  her  fair  sister,  the  Old  North  State,  he 
did  battle  with  the  cruel  Tuscarora  Indians,  and  by  his  prowess  won  the  name 
of  Tuscarora  John. 

The  Revolution  came,  and  found  their  fiery  Norman  blood  flowing  freely 
in  the  cause  of  liberty  and  right.  It  is  midnight  on  the  broad  Atlantic. 
The  English  brig  "  Packhorse,"  bound  to  New  York,  with  a  band  of  American 
prisoners  on  board,  is  pursuing  her  solitary  way.  Suddenly  the  deep  still 
ness  is  broken  by  shots,  cries,  and  groans.  A  brief  struggle,  and  the  brig  is 
in  possession  of  the  prisoners,  her  course  changed  for  Wilmington,  N.  C. 
Well  did  these  brave  patriots  deserve  their  liberty.  When  the  British 
threatened,  if  the  Americans  retaliated  for  the  murder  of  Colonel  Hayne,  to 
sacrifice  these  prisoners,  they  unanimously  signed  a  paper  requesting  that  no 
thought  of  them  should  prevent  the  authorities  acting  as  they  deemed  best 
for  the  welfare  of  their  country.  Among  this  band  were  two  grandsons  of 
Tuscarora,  John  and  Edward  Barnwell,  and  his  great-grandson,  William 
Elliott,  uncle  of  the  gifted  and  eloquent  Bishop  of  Georgia,  and  grandfather 
of  the  late  gallant  General  Elliott. 

Robert  Barnwell,  another  grandson  of  the  Indian  hero,  at  the  age  of  sev 
enteen  had  received  sixteen  wounds  in  the  service  of  his  country,  and  yet 
lived  to  take  a  prominent  position  in  the  Legislature  of  South  Carolina  and 
in  the  halls  of  Congress.  It  was  his  most  fervent  prayer  for  his  children 
that  they  should  be  remarkable  as  devoted  servants  of  Christ.  And  truly 
has  that  petition  been  answered.  One  of  his  sons,  the  polished,  courteous 
gentleman,  the  eminently  wise  and  Christian  statesman,  who  bears  his  name, 


ANXIE    M.     BAENWELL.  915 

is  still  spared  to  his  bleeding  country.  The  other,  that  zealous  soldier  of  the 
Cross,  who  labored  so  faithfully  and  with  such  rare  success  in  his  Master's 
vineyard,  has  entered  into  his  rest.  But  his  mantle  fell  upon  his  peculiarly 
gifted  and  cultivated  son,  whose  kindly  care  and  heavenly  teachings  cheered 
the  sick  and  dying  hours  of  so  many  of  our  gallant  soldiers.  He,  too,  has 
passed  to  his  eternal  home,  but  his  name  lives  a  household  word  throughout 
the  South.  The  brilliant  talents  of  both  father  and  son,  and  yet  more,  their 
ardent,  devoted  consecration  of  their  all  to  the  service  of  Christ,  shed  a 
radiance  around  the  old  Norman  name  purer  and  holier  than  the  fame  of 
the  proudest  conqueror  that  earth  can  boast. 

The  late  war  found  the  descendants  of  the  patriots  of  76  still  at  their 
post,  willingly  risking  fortune,  home,  and  life  in  the  service  of  the  South. 
Six  brave  hearts,  which  beat  with  love  for  her,  are  forever  still ;  and  those 
who  live  must  labor  for  their  daily  bread  —  many  deprived  of  their  old  and 
cherished  homes.  Yet,  like  all  gallant,  true-hearted  men  of  the  South,  they 
have  put  their  shoulder  to  the  wheel  and  shrank  not  from  the  toil.  Methinks 
they  are  a  fairer  representative  of  the  old  chivalrous  race,  though  "  lands 
and  honors,  wealth  and  power  "  are  no  longer  theirs,  than  the  titled,  sonless 
old  man  in  London,  who,  with  the  snows  of  seventy  winters  on  his  head, 
still  lingers  on  the  confines  of  the  spirit-world,  and  bears  the  name  of  Baron 
Trimblestone. 

Near  Dublin,  in  Ireland,  stands  the  ancient  fortress  of  Drimnagh  Castle, 
once  the  stronghold  of  the  Barnwells,  now  in  the  hands  of  strangers.  The 
front  seems  one  solid  mass  of  ivy,  save  where  there  are  openings  in  the  rich, 
dark  green  for  the  windows.  The  moat,  too,  is  in  good  repair,  and  the  strong 
wall  still  remains,  but  the  old  masters  live  in  other  homes ;  yet  many  of  the 
name,  reduced  to  the  humble  walks  of  life,  linger  around  the  old  castle  of 
their  former  chiefs.  The  noble  spirit  of  the  days  of  chivalry  still  animates 
them  in  the  midst  of  poverty  and  toil ;  for  a  late  traveller  in  Ireland  men 
tioned  the  incident  of  a  child  being  saved  from  drowning  by  a  young  Barn- 
well,  who  in  the  attempt,  alas  !  lost  his  own  brave  life. 

And  so  it  is  in  South  Carolina.  The  old  homesteads  where  the  sires  and 
grandsires  of  the  present  generation  dwelt  in  refinement,  ease,  and  plenty, 
where 

"Still  they  bore  without  abuse 
The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman," 

are  now  the  desecrated  spoil  of  the  foe.  In  those  old  halls  which  have 
echoed  to  the  merry  Christmas  shout,  the  enemy's  foot  has  trod,  and  negroes 
have  held  their  revels. 

Picture  to  yourself  a  clear,  breezy  spring  morning ;  the  sun  shining  brightly, 
the  glad  notes  of  hundreds  of  feathered  songsters  making  the  air  vocal  with 
their  music,  and  fair  nature  smiling  in  her  fresh  green  robes.  Pass  through 
this  broad  avenue  of  royal  oaks,  the  branches  meeting  overhead  in  a  majes- 


916  SOUTHLAND     WRITERS. 

tic  canopy  of  richest  green:  up  the  steps,  through  }>\;r/.'/.;i,  hall,  and  parlor, 
come  with  me  to  a  second  piazza  beyond.  And  now  look  forth  !  Dancing, 
flashing,  sparkling  in  the  sunlight,  roll  the  waters  of  Broad  River  on  their 
way  to  the  mighty  ocean.  Along  her  banks  stretch  the  green  shores,  broken 
here  and  there  by  peaceful  homes.  Yonder  glides  a  snowy  sail,  sure  token 
of  a  party  seeking  the  rare  sport  of  drum-fishing.  On  the  right,  another 
avenue  of  live-oaks  winds  down  to  the  white,  sandy  beach  ;  while  in  front 
is  a  small  flower-garden.  Oh,  what  new,  glad,  bounding  life  seems  poured 
into  every  vein  by  that  fresh  salt-breeze  sweeping  over  the  blue  river ! 
Heart,  mind,  and  body  drink  in  its  inspiriting  freshness,  and  involuntarily 
you  exclaim :  "  O  Lord !  our  Governor,  how  excellent  is  thy  name  in  all 
the  world ! " 

Such  is  Laurel  Bay,  on  Port  Royal  Island,  the  old  homestead  of  the  Barn- 
wells,  now  in  the  hands  of  the  United  States  Government. 

The  shades  of  night  rest  on  the  scene  I  have  attempted  to  portray.  With 
stealthy  tread,  hushed  breath,  and  watchful  eye,  two  forms  glide  'neath  the 
deep  shadow  of  the  trees,  in  the  direction  of  the  house :  they  are  both  young, 
and  both  wear  the  uniform  of  Confederate  gray.  The  absence  of  any  badge 
speaks  them  privates  in  the  service  of  their  country.  Yet  in  their  veins 
flows  pure  and  unsullied  the  same  fiery  Norman  blood  that  nerved  the  arms 
of  the  followers  of  William  the  Conqueror  and  Strongbow ;  that  beat  in  the 
loyal  hearts  of  those  who,  with  the  noble  Duke  of  Ormond,  went  forth  to 
battle  for  the  royal  martyr ;  that  bade  old  Tuscarora  be  calm  and  fearless 
in  the  midst  of  hidden  dangers ;  and  that  was  poured  forth  freely  by  the 
patriots  of  the  Revolution.  Suddenly  a  light  flashing  through  the  trees 
bids  them  pause,  and  the  loud  sounds  of  uncouth  revelry  meet  their  ears. 
Who  can  be  holding  high  festival  in  this  desolated  home  ?  Another  step  — 
and  what  a  spectacle  is  revealed !  Negroes  throng  the  piazza  and  rooms  be 
yond —  lounging  on  the  chairs  and  sofas  —  dancing  in  the  old  parlor.  Shame! 
shame!  The  scene  is  too  revolting  to  dwell  on. 

Whether  this  old  homestead  will  ever  be  the  abode  of  intellectual  refine 
ment,  hospitality,  mirth,  and  Christian  love,  as  in  other  days  —  rising,  like  the 
crest  of  her  former  masters,  a  phoenix  from  the  ashes  of  her  desecration — 
God  alone  knoweth.'  But  could  those  brave  old  ancestors  look  down  from 
their  homes  of  rest,  they  would  find  no  stain  on  their  ancient  shield ;  and 
their  descendants  still  hold  firmly  to  their  proud  old  motto:  "Malo  mori 
quam  foedari." 


OX  SOUTHERN  LITERATURE. 

Hitherto  the  South  has  contributed  a  comparatively  small  share  to  the 
great  mass  of  American  publications.  This  was,  perhaps,  owing  to  the  truth 
of  that  old  opinion  that  poverty  is  the  soil  best  calculated  to  render  talent 
and  genius  fruitful,  not  to  produce  them,  for  they  are  rare  plants,  peculiar 


ANNIE     M.     BARN  WELL.  917 

to  no  soil,  no  climate,  and  no  season  ;  but  merely  to  stimulate  them  to  a  fairer 
growth,  and  to  ripen  their  rich  and  varied  fruit.  We  were  a  prosperous 
people ;  our  slaves  were  carefully  housed,  fed,  and  clothed  by  the  masters, 
who  were  their  protection  from  those  blessings  of  the  free  children  of  pov 
erty,  exposure,  starvation,  and  nakedness.  We  were  not  obliged  to  write  for 
our  daily  bread,  and  so  many  who,  under  other  circumstances,  would  have 
wielded  a  successful  pen,  were  content,  instead,  to  satisfy  the  .cravings  of 
their  intellect  with  copious  draughts  from  the  cup  of  knowledge  prepared  by 
other  hands.  Now  the  case  is  widely  different.  Never,  perhaps,  in  the 
annals  of  the  world,  were  there  so  many  people  of  education,  culture,  and 
refinement  suddenly  reduced  at  the  same  moment  to  such  a  state  of  absolute 
and  painful  poverty.  In  this  condition  there  is  but  one  alternative  —  we 
must  work  or  starve :  but  where  is  work  to  be  obtained  such  as  we  can  per 
form  ?  Many  of  us  have  received  the  best  advantages  of  education,  and 
with  such,  food  for  the  mind  is  a  necessity  second  only  to  that  of  food  for  the 
body.  They  cannot  get  books ;  and  if  they  could,  time  is  too  needful  for  the 
task  of  earning  bread,  to  be  spent  in  anything  which  does  not  aid  in  that  ob 
ject.  In  this  emergency,  they  seize  the  pen,  and  become  authors.  Eagerly, 
hungrily  they  write,  striving  to  feed  body  and  mind  at  once;  now  dis 
heartened  by  the  frequent  failure  of  their  efforts,  now  cheered  by  a  feeble 
gleam  of  success,  but  always  struggling  on  for  bare  existence.  Chatterton, 
poor,  lonely,  gifted  boy,  insulted,  proud,  and  shut  in  by  so  dark  a  sky,  might 
well  serve  as  the  type  of  those  who  will  one  day  be  remembered  and  honored 
as  the  founders  of  a  Southern  literature. 

And  it  is  now,  while  we  are  thus  at  the  commencement  of  our  work,  that 
no  effort  should  be  spared  to  lay  a  sure  and  strong  and  pure  foundation,  that 
will  resist  time  and  change  and  decay.  Is  it  poetry  that  is  needed  to  call 
forth  our  highest  efforts  ?  Surely,  we  can  scarcely  have  it  in  a  fuller  meas 
ure  than  at  present.  Is  it  education  and  refinement?  We  will  never  have 
more  than  is  ours  to-day.  Is  it  love  of  country,  and  the  wish  to  twine  a 
wreath  of  immortal  bays  to  crown  her  brow?  Ah!  never  in  her  brighter 
days  of  pride  and  hope  did  we  love  our  sunny  land  as  now,  in  her  hour  of 
woe  and  desolation  —  never  did  we  long  more  eagerly  to  do  her  honor.  Is 
it  a  noble,  animating  spirit,  the  sight  of  gallant  deeds  and  priceless  sacri 
fices,  of  heroes  and  of  martyrs  ?  Surely,  surely  the  memory  of  our  glorious 
struggle  has  not  faded  yet  —  we  have  not  yet  forgotten  the  heroes  and  mar 
tyrs,  the  victories  and  the  sacrifices,  the  noble  deeds  and  the  fearless  deaths 
that  marked  our  brief  day  of  freedom.  Or  is  it  examples  of  faith  and  trust 
and  self-forgetfulness,  of  dignity,  manliness,  and  stainless  honor  that  we 
crave  ?  Look,  oh !  look  around  you,  and  in  the  lives  of  thousands  of  our 
suffering  people  you  will  find  examples  of  all  these  as  fair  and  as  bright  as 
the  record  of  the  heroes  and  martyrs  of  other  days  —  the  Cranmers,  Kldleys, 
and  Latimers,  the  Hoopers,  John  Bradfords,  and  Anne  Askews,  whose  names 
shine  like  stars  amidst  the  darkness  of  cruelty,  sin,  and  oppression  by  which 
they  are  surrounded. 


MARY  CAROLINE  GRISWOLD. 

IN  1864,  the  "Southern  Field  and  Fireside"  published  several  nov 
elettes  and  poems,  by  "  Carrie,"  which  were  interesting  and  natu 
rally  written,  and  consequently  popular.  "  Zaidee :  A  Tale  of  the 
Early  Christians,"  was  a  very  pleasing  story ;  as  was  "  Bannockburn," 
the  longest  of  these  novelettes. 

"  Carrie,"  or,  rather,  Miss  Griswold,  is  rather  young,  as  yet,  to  have 
made  much  progress  in  the  literary  line  ;  although,  from  her  published 
novelettes,  etc.,  we  feel  warranted  in  giving  her  a  place  among  "  South 
land  Writers,"  as  a  writer  of  much  promise. 

Miss  Griswold  is  a  resident  of  Charleston,  S.  C. 


THE  MYSTERIES. 

Oh!  mystery  of  mysteries — is  Life! 

This  constant  tumult  in  the  human  breast, 
Where  passions  wage  their  never-ending  strife, 

And  hearts  still  dream,  but  nothing  know,  of  rest. 
Moments  of  joy  to  every  heart  are  known, 

But  moments  only — so  shadowy,  so  brief! 
The  diamond  changes  to  the  worthless  stone, 

And  vanished  joys  but  darken  present  grief ! 

Oh !  mystery  of  mysteries  —  is  Love ! 

To  know  but  one  in  this  broad  world  of  ours ; 
To  feel,  one  smile  brighten  the  heaven  above 

And  give  new  beauty  to  the  fragrant  flowers. 
To  know  but  one  —  to  live  but  in  one  life! 

To  feel  that  gone,  all  happiness  were  fled, 
The  sunlight  darkened,  the  heart  with  anguish  rife, 

And  joy  and  hope  lie  buried  with  the  dead. 

Oh !  mystery  of  mysteries  —  is  Death ! 

Oh !  sad  and  strange,  one  moment  to  behold 
The  face  we  love  smile  back  the  love  we  give, 

The  next,  perchance,  in  death's  embrace  lie  cold : 


918 


MARY    CAROLINE    GRISWOLD.  919 

From  the  chill  touch  to  shrink  in  wondering  awe  — 
Shrink  from  the  casket  where  once  our  jewel  lay. 

Death's  mystery  is  great !     An  angel  spirit  sings, 
And  we  beneath  Death's  shadow  weep  for  our  lost  and  pray. 


THE  WHITE  CAMELIA. 

Circled  with  glossy  leaves,  in  queenly  power 
Rested  in  its  purity  the  marble  flower : 
No  balmy  fragrance  swept  the  silent  air, 
A  dream  of  sweetness  only  lingered  there, 
Like  to  a  loving  heart  that  stands  alone 
With  o'er  each  gushing  thought  a  silence  thrown , 
'Neath  the  snow-drifts  of  pride  it  calmly  lies, 
Lives  in  the  world  awhile,  then  droops  and  dies ; 
Alone  with  an  inward  grief  that  none  divine, 
It,  like  the  flower,  falls  without  a  sign  : 
Fit  emblem  thus  of  pride  in  all  its  power, 
In  dreamy  stillness  lay — the  marble  flower  ! 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  SNOW. 

The  snow-flakes  are  falling  swiftly, 

The  children  are  wild  with  glee 
As  they  dream  of  the  merry  pastime 

The  morrow's  morn  will  see; 
And  faces  are  bright  in  their  youthful  glow, 
As  they  watch  the  falling,  beautiful  snow ! 

Within  that  pleasant  parlor 

The  mother  alone  is  still; 
She  feels  not  the  snow  that  falls  without, 

But  her  throbbing  heart  is  chill  - 
As  she  turns  away  from  the  fireside  glow 
To  look  abroad  on  the  beautiful  snow! 

God  help  those  eyes  despairing 

That  gaze  at  the  snow-clad  earth; 
God  pity  the  mad  rebellion 

That  in  that  heart  has  birth! 
The  children  are  gone — and  a  sound  of  woe 
Breaks  through  the  night,  o'er  the  beautiful  snow ! 


920  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

The  woman's  face  all  ghastly 
Lies  pressed  to  the  window-pane, 

But  no  sound  of  human  anguish 
Escapes  her  lips  again  : 

'T  was  the  cry  of  a  woman's  heart  crushed  low, 

Whose  hopes  lay  dead  'neath  the  beautiful  snow. 

The  firelight  glanced  and  sparkled, 
Despite  of  the  mourner's  gloom; 

It  gilded  the  books  and  pictures, 
And  lit  up  the  cheerful  room, 

While  through  the  casement  its  crimson  glow 

Threw  a  band  of  light  o'er  the  beautiful  snow. 

She  shrank  from  the  mocking  brightness 

That  sought  to  win  her  there : 
Far  better  to  watch  the  snow-flakes, 

Than  gaze  at  a  vacant  chair  — 
A  chair,  that  never  again  could  know 
A  form  now  still  'neath  the  beautiful  snow. 

Many  a  night-watch  had  he  known, 

And  many  a  vigil  kept, 
While  the  snow-flakes  fell  around  him, 

And  all  his  comrades  slept; 
For  his  heart  was  strong  in  its  patriot  glow 
As  he  gazed  abroad  at  the  beautiful  snow. 

He,  too,  had  watched  the  snow-flakes, 
And  laughed  as  they  whirled  him  by, 

Had  watched  as  they  drifted  round  him, 
With  bright,  undaunted  eye  — 

And  now  there  rests  not  a  stone  to  show 

The  soldier's  grave  'neath  the  beautiful  snow. 

The  mourner's  eye  roved  sadly 

In  search  of  the  vacant  chair, 
To  rest  in  loving  wonder 

On  a  young  child  slumbering  there ; 
And  she  caught  from  the  baby-lips  the  low 
Half-murmured  words — "The  beautiful  snow!" 

With  a  sudden,  passionate  yearning, 
She  caught  him  to  her  breast, 


MARY    CAROLINE    GRISWOLD.  921 

And  smiled  in  the  eyes,  that  in  their  calm 

Eebuked  her  own  unrest — 
Eyes  that  had  caught  their  kindling  glow 
From  the  father  that  lay  'neath  the  beautiful  snow. 

Again  she  stood  at  the  casement, 

And  smiled  at  her  baby's  glee, 
As  he  turned  from  the  feathery  snow-flakes 

Her  answering  smile  to  see — 
Her  little  child,  that  never  could  know 
The  father  that  lay  'neath  the  beautiful  snow ! 

Ah !  many  a  widowed  heart  doth  throb 

In  bitterness,  alone  — 
And  many  an  orphan's  tears  still  fall 

Above  some  honored  stone: 
For  hearts  must  bleed,  and  tears  must  flow 
For  the  loved  and  lost,  'neath  the  beautiful  snow ! 


MISS  JULIA  C.  MINTZING. 

TULIA  CAROLINE  MIXTZING,  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  comes 
tl  from  one  of  the  most  prominent  and  highly  respected  families  of 
South  Carolina.  She  is  a  thorough  Southern  woman,  and  she  has  that 
intensity  of  character  that  distinguishes  those  women  of  the  South 
who  are  truly  representatives  of  their  section.  By  ancestry  and 
nativity  a  South-Carolinian  —  her  father  and  mother  both  having  been 
born  in  that  State  —  it  is  not  strange  that  Miss  Mintzing  should  possess 
that  self-consciousness  of  the  Carolinian,  which,  carried  in  the  persons 
of  statesmen  into  the  political  arena  of  the  country,  has  done  so  much 
to  mould  the  public  opinion  of  the  South,  and,  indeed,  of  Democrats 
everywhere.  In  these  days  of  woman-rightism  —  when  the  weaker  sex 
tilt  against  the  sterner,  mounted  upon  the  hobby  of  Reform  —  it  would 
perhaps  seem  invidious  to  refer  to  our  sister  as  one  who  has  always 
taken  a  deep  and  absorbing  interest  in  the  politics  of  the  country. 
But  the  interest  which  Miss  Mintzing,  even  from  early  childhood,  has 
ever  manifested  in  the  political  questions  of  the  day,  has  arisen,  we 
may  presume,  from  the  necessities  of  the  case.  Reared  in  that  fierce 
school  of  States  Rights  which  admits  of  no  parleying  and  no  compro 
mise,  it  would  not  be  singular  to  find  one  embodying  in  herself  all  the 
proud  traditions  of  her  State,  giving  to  the  cause,  which  in  South  Ca 
rolina  partakes  almost  of  the  sanctity  of  a  religious  creed,  her  enthusi 
astic  reverence.  As  the  French  would  say,  ga  va  sans  dire.  This, 
however,  in  passing. 

In  contemplating  Miss  Mintzing  as  a  writer  —  our  main  purpose  — 
we  must  judge  her  not  so  much  by  what  she  has  done  as  by  her  capa 
bilities  and  her  promise  of  future  performance.  Her  writings,  up  to 
within  a  recent  period,  have  not  been  voluminous.  Circumstances 
which  so  many  tenderly  nurtured  of  the  South  have  had  reason  to 
deplore  —  the  desolations  produced  by  war  and  rapine  —  have  had 
much  to  do  with  Miss  Mintzing's  literary  efforts.  The  losses  sustained 
by  her  family  during  the  war  were  severe.  Happily,  the  subject  of 
this  sketch  has  found  it  within  her  power  to  call  upon  her  mental 
armory  for  weapons  wherewith  to  resist  the  too  pressing  encroach- 

922 


JULIA    C.     MINTZING.  923 

ments  of  pecuniary  adversity.  She  has  found  place  for  her  writings 
in  some  of  the  best  magazines  and  literary  papers  of  the  country,  and 
in  the  pages  and  columns  of  these  has  laid  the  seeds  of  a  reputation 
which  only  needs  time  to  insure  its  blossoming  into  fame. 

From  Miss  Mintzing's  writings  we  give  two  selections,  one  of  poetry, 
and  the  other  of  prose.     We  commence  with  the  poem  : 

VICTOR  AND  VICTIM. 

Only  a  lance  in  her  quivering  breast, 
Fatally  poised  in  the  tourney's  jest, 
Only  a  wreck  on  life's  stormiest  sea 
Wildly  adrift  for  Eternity ! 
Only  a  shade  on  a  summer  sky, 
Only  the  break  of  a  careless  tie, 
Only  a  prayer  — O  Father — God! 
Her  passionate  cry  beneath  the  rod! 

Comfort  her,  Lord ! 

Shield  with  thy  sword 
From  all  who  oppress, 
From  all  who  distress. 

Man  and  his  falsity, 

Pettiest  mockery ! 

Woman  the  slanderer, 

Friend,  foe,  and  panderer  — 
Grant  her  redress ! 

Why  did  she  pause  for  the  Lorelei's  song  ? 
Why  did  she  listen  and  dream  so  long? 
Why  was  she  blind  to  the  dazzling  snare 
That  lured  her  on  to  the  end  so  sair  ? 
Why  were  the  eyes  so' tender  and  blue  — 
And  the  trysting  vows  that  seemed  so  true ! 
Why  the  soft  touch — the  passionate  thrill, 
And  the  lips  that  kissed  away  reason's  will ! 

Back,  ye  sweet  memories  ! 

Off,  ye  fond  reveries ! 
Hark  to  the  world ! 

She  is  but  human  — 

Only  a  woman ! 

So  crush  all  feeling, 

Weakness  revealing, 

For  we  are  maskers, 

Hypocrite  taskers  ! 


924  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Life  a  poor  summer  day, 

And  we  the  potter's  clay 

Toys  to  be  hurled ! 

Was  he  so  brave  thus  to  tilt  for  her  life  — 

Was  he  a  man  in  this  dalliance-strife? 

Flash  shield  and  buckler  —  blaze  helmet  and  lance 

Quick  to  this  tourney  —  valiant  advance  I 

But  the  hand  that  is  poising  with  steadiest  aim 

Shall  quiver  with  weakness  and  tremble  with  pain 

When  the  ghosts  of  those  moments  swoop  fierce  from  unrest, 

And  falsehood's  Nemesis  holds  hell  in  his  breast ! 

True,  't  is  but  a  lance 

In  the  road's  advance, 

And  but  a  woman 

Proves  to  be  human  ! 

Only  a  heart 

Breaks  in  the  jesting  ; 

'T  is  but  a  part 

Played  in  life's  testing ! 

Then  pity  her,  God, 

As  faint,  'neath  Thy  rod, 

Weary  in  the  agony, 

She  treads  her  Calvary ! 

As  a  writer  of  prose,  Miss  Mintzing  is  just  as  earnest  in  her  style 
and  in  her  manner  of  expressing  herself  as  she  shows  herself  to  be  in 
her  poetry.  Indeed,  this  earnestness  of  character  is  one  of  her  marked 
attributes.  We  can  well  imagine  that  she  would  be  one  to  rejoice  in 
the  courage  of  Joan  of  Arc  and  in  the  devoted  patriotism  of  Charlotte 
Corday  —  choosing  these  as  memorable  examples  of  the  heroism  of 
her  sex. 

In  an  article  upon  Goethe  and  Schiller,  the  illustrious  German 
authors,  published  in  the  "Laud  we  Love,"  Miss  Mintzing  compares 
these  two  masters  of  the  literature  of  Germany.  The  following  pas 
sages  from  the  article  in  question  will  afford  a  fair  understanding  of 
Miss  Mintzing's  characteristics  as  a  writer  of  prose  : 

The  old  city  of  Frankfort  on  the  Main  claims  the  birth  of  Johann  Wolf 
gang  Von  Goathe,  August  28th,  1749.  Sprung  from  the  aristocracy,  nursed 
and  petted  by  his  beautiful  child-mother,  his  bright,  sunny  childhood  passed. 

Impressionable  and  fiery,  we  find  him,  while  yet  a  boy,  agonized  by  the  in 
tensity  of  his  first  love. 


JULIA    C.     MIDTTZING.  925 

But  the  heart  that  through  a  long  life  was  only  to  dispense  successively, 
did  not  break ;  though  the  boy-love  has,  with  the  boy-faith,  so  exquisitely 
idealized  the  heroine's  name  in  that  Faust  which  thrilled  all  Germany.  De 
spite  the  ethics  of  the  poem-drama,  which  the  "rigid  righteous"  so  vehe 
mently  decry,  the  sweet,  girlish  trust,  the  faith  and  pathos  of  Margaret's 
love,  hold  the  heart  against  all  judgment. 

The  pretty  poetry  of  Mignon's  episode  in  Wilhelm  Meister  pleases,  and 
the  refrain  of  her  child-sorrow  is  still  echoing  in  our  hearts,  as  she  pleads 
for  her  return  to  that  sunny  land  where  "  the  gold-orange  blooms ;  "  but 
Margaret,  man's  spiritualized  earth-love,  attracts  with  a  sad,  sweet  witchery 
which  holds  us  spell-bound  as  only  Goethe's  genius  can  —  lifts  us  far  above 
the  fault,  and  wrong,  and  sin,  though  the  hard  world  thundered  its  code  as 
the  organ  rolled  the  "  Dies  Irae,"  and  faint  and  weary  the  broken  lily  fell  at 
the  cathedral  gates. 

But  the  perfection  of  Goethe's  womanhood  is  seen  in  his  conception  of 
Clara  —  the  Clara  of  "  Egmont."  Here  again  the  characteristic  rather 
than  the  morale  must  appeal !  —  aye  the  strength  of  the  passionate  devotion 
of  this  Amy  Robsart  of  Germany  wakens  for  her  an  all-absorbing  interest. 
In  Margaret,  the  trust,  and  clinging,  girlish  love,  are  most  prominent  —  the 
development  born  of  the  dangerous  guile  of  the  accomplished  man  of  the 
world;  but  in  Clara  it  is  Egmont's  inspiration — the  passion  called  to  life  by 
the  gallant  soldier,  brilliant  noble,  and  impetuous  lover.  Her  little  songs 
are  exquisite  ;  breathing  sometimes  a  witching  coquetry,  and  always  her  un 
selfish  devotion.  In  this  drama,  less  metaphysical  than  Faust,  the  scenes 
are  graphic,  and  the  stirring  history  of  the  revolt  of  the  Netherlands  moves 
almost  as  a  living  spectacle. 

Some  of  Egmont's  soliloquies  rise  into  all  the  grandeur  of  the  truly  ma 
jestic  German,  and  the  famous  prison  reflection  is  unsurpassed  by  anything 
which  even  Shakspeare  has  left  to  us. 

An  English  writer,  comparing  the  Juliet  of  Shakspeare  with  Schiller's 
Thekla,  has  remarked  that  in  Juliet  is  found  an  "  infinity  of  love,"  but  in 
Thekla  "  an  eternity ; "  and  in  truth  the  womanly  characteristics  are  wonder 
fully  developed  in  this  rare  gallery.  Sweet,  trustful  Margaret  pleads  her 
faith-love  —  for  even  when  dying,  her  lips  fashion  the  name  of  her  beloved; 
Clarchen,  with  more  of  the  strength  of  passion,  exhibits  the  fathomless 
depths  of  her  intenser  nature;  while  Thekla,  Schiller's  pure,  self-sacrificing 
girl-patriot,  passes  away  in  the  music  of  her  broken  heart,  as  she  murmurs 
her  exquisite  farewell,  in  the  sweet,  sad  line, 

"  Ich  habe  gelebt,  und  geliebet !  " 

And  this,  his  earliest  and  most  spirituelle  creation,  recalls  another  of  the 
great  lights  which  brightened  the  eighteenth  century. 
John  Christopher  Frederic  Von  Schiller  was  born  on  the  tenth  of  No- 


926  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

vember,  1759,  at  Marbach  on  the  Neckar.  And  what  a  contrast  his  infancy 
and  boyhood  present,  when  compared  with  the  cloudless  happiness  of  Goethe's 
life.  Born  in  poverty,  and  educated  at  a  military-monastic  school,  he  was 
restricted  from  all  intercourse  with  women ;  for  Charles,  Duke  of  Wurtem- 
berg,  thought  it  most  conducive  to  the  intellectual  development  of  his  bene 
ficiaries  to  allow  only  the  visits  of  mothers  and  very  young  sisters.  Heart- 
food  and  brain-food  were  alike  dusty  books  ;  and  we  find  the  talent  which, 
in  the  future,  was  to  give  us  Don  Carlos,  Marie  Stuart,  Thekla,  and  the 
thrilling  drama  of  William  Tell,  diligent  in  the  study  of  physic  and  juris 
prudence. 

But  the  soul  of  the  thirsting  neophyte  panted  for  its  native  element,  and 
we  watch  him  through  the  stolen  hours  of  the  night,  revelling  in  what  was 
to  make  his  fame  throughout  the  world. 

And  now  the  student-life  passes  away,  and  we  find  the  independent  Ger 
man  spirit  boldly  and  bravely  struggling  for  freedom  of  thought ;  and  un 
willing  to  submit  to  the  sway  and  espionage  of  his  old  patron,  he  escaped 
from  the  army,  and  then  appeared  "  The  Robbers,"  the  first-born  of  that 
wonderful  intellect,  and  a  drama  of  rare  talent  and  marvellous  power. 

Afterward  came  Don  Carlos,  Marie  Stuart,  Wallenstein,  Piccolomini,  Re 
volt  of  United  Netherlands,  and,  as  the  last  effort  and  crowning  glory,  Wil 
liam  Tell.  The  story  of  Don  Carlos,  as  told  by  Prescott,  in  his  simple  and 
beautiful  English,  is  familiar  to  all ;  but  the  grace  and  eloquence  of  the 
love-passages  in  the  drama  require  all  the  fiery  imagination  of  this  grand 
old  master.  Marie  Stuart,  as  portrayed  by  Schiller,  has  all  the  womanly 
dignity  with  which  we  love  to  associate  the  beautiful  Queen  of  Scotland. 
The  garden  scene  has  become  world-renowned  since  Ristori's  perfect  render 
ing  and  gentle  accents  have  thrilled  two  continents  with  their  eloquence. 

In  preparing  himself  for  Wallenstein  and  the  Piccolomini,  Schiller  col 
lected  material  for  the  Revolt  of  the  United  Netherlands,  a  period  with 
which  we  are  now  well  acquainted  through  the  researches  of  the  terse  and 
elegant  Prescott  and  tireless  Motley. 

Schiller's  life  differs  entirely  from  that  of  his  great  compeer ;  for  Goethe, 
with  his  rare  beauty,  seemed  born  to  happiness;  while  his  joyous,  expansive 
heart,  ever  life-giving,  received  and  gave  forth  without  ceasing,  emphatically 
an  absolvent,  and,  whirled  on  by  destiny,  he  dispensed  what  might  be  called 
his  life-charities :  receiving  always  a  more  costly  recompense,  as  Gretchen, 
Frederica,  and  a  hundred  others  answer  to  the  roll-call  of  his  unresisting 
and  irresistible  heart. 

But  of  all  the  many,  the  history  of  Frederica,  the  timid,  shy,  yet  loving 
maiden,  stands  conspicuous  in  her  sweet,  forgiving  sorrow;  a  mute,  appeal 
ing  rebuke  to  the  faithless  poet.  Through  long  years  of  neglect  and  forget- 
fulness,  still  she  clung  to  this  grand  passion  of  her  life :  and  when  wooed, 
her  reply  was, 

"  The  heart  that  has  once  been  Goethe's,  can  never  be  another's." 


JULIA    C.     MINTZING.  927 

Schiller,  differently  situated,  had  life's  hard  realities  to  struggle  against ; 
for  poverty,  with  its  iron  grasp,  had  seized  him,  and  he  had  little  time  for 
love's  dalliance  or  its  joys;  in  fact,  his  early  isolation  from  women  told 
plainly  in  his  writings,  and  his  heart-impressions  were  neither  many  nor  in 
spiring  :  therefore  we  are  not  surprised  at  his  friendship  —  love-marriage. 
Whether  the  heart  of  this  mighty  German  could  have  been  otherwise  waken- 
•  ed,  remains  a  mystery  ;  but  certainly  the  perfection  of  womanly  passion  has 
never  been  evidenced  in  his  heroines. 

Schiller  generally  wrote  at  night,  strengthened  by  very  strong  coffee: 
this  was  the  habit  of  a  lifetime,  and  to  and  fro,  through  the  cold  German 
midnights,  would  he  pace  his  room,  while  the  grand  conceptions  of  his  mag 
nificent  intellect  were  dreamed  into  realities. 

But  the  battle,  the  toil,  and  the  wear  of  a  troubled  existence  told  upon 
him  while  yet  in  the  flush  of  his  manhood.  An  earnest  spirit,  disdaining 
the  mean  and  the  sensual,  his  strivings  were  after  the  pure,  the  true,  and 
the  good ;  and  as  his  last-born,  his  farewell  benison  to  his  fatherland,  he  be 
queathed  his  great  drama  of  William  Tell. 

Who  that  has  read  this  does  not  feel  his  pulses  quicken,  as  the  splendid 
talent  of  the  author  does  noble  battling  for  the  right?  and,  as  the  last  flush 
on  the  Riitli  dies  along  the  Swiss  heavens,  we  feel  Schiller's  spirit  floating 
upward  in  its  light. 

As  the  one  illustrates  the  German  genius,  so  the  other  stands  colossal  as 
the  German  talent. 

Even  the  personal  appearance  of  the  men  seems  to  speak  their  especial 
characteristics.  Goethe  was  tall  and  majestic,  the  handsome  man  of  Ger 
many  ;  with  that  marvellous  beauty  which  lit  every  lineament  with  the  reflex 
of  his  soul :  and  Schiller,  towering  in  his  rugged  outlines,  large-featured  and 
irregular,  yet  always  bearing  the  impress  of  the  great  intellect  that  swayed 
him  with  imperial  rule. 

But  they  both  have  passed  where,  to  use  Schiller's  own  language, 

"  Word  is  kept  with  Hope,  and  to  wild  Belief  a  lovely  truth  is  given." 

And  the  old  German  is  singing  still  their  echoes  —  the  delicious  thrilling 
minor,  and  the  vibrating,  heart-stirring  bass  —  a  grandly  weird  symphony, 
born  in  the  wild  German  mountains,  and  nursed  by  the  blue,  rippling  Ehine. 

Again  we  listen  to  the  sweet  Minnesingers,  and  again  we  bow  in  reverence 
to  the  magnificent  hymns  of  the  seventeenth  century:  now  the  spell  of 
Goethe's  genius  lures  us,  and  anon  Heine's  silvery  music  wilders,  as  did  his 
own  beautiful  Lorelei.  The  soul-chants  of  Schiller  waken  and  vibrate  to  the 
very  depths  of  the  spirit ;  while  Kremer,  fiery,  impassioned,  freedom-loving 
Kremer,  shields  us  with  that  last  hymn,  born  while  his  immortality  hovered 
on  the  brink  of  destiny. 

And  so  the  mighty  host  passes  onward,  onward !  marshalled  into  the  far 


928  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

eternity  ;  but  their  teachings  remain  forever  in  our  hearts,  and  as  an  inspi 
ration  from  them  echoes  the  sentiment, 

"Whoever  with  an  earnest  soul 

Strives  for  some  end,  from  this  low  world  afar 
Still  upward  travels  though  he  miss  the  goal, 
And  strays  —  but  toward  a  star !  " 

Miss  Mintzing's  personal  presence  is  very  attractive.  She  is  of  a 
distingue  appearance,  somewhat  above  the  medium  height,  graceful  in 
the  extreme,  and  denotes  in  every  gesture  the  lady  of  culture  and  re 
finement.  In  conversation,  she  is  earnest ;  bordering,  sometimes,  on 
the  enthusiastic  —  especially  upon  subjects  connected  with  her  State 
and  section  —  and  dispenses  a  great  deal  of  her  own  magnetism  to 
those  with  whom  she  converses.  Her  social  tastes  lead  her  to  pleasure 
and  gayety;  and  in  the  drawing-room  she  is  an  acknowledged  orna 
ment.  She  is  rather  of  an  Italian  type,  being  a  brunette  of  a  clear 
and  soft  complexion.  Her  eyes  are  dark,  and  her  hair  is  dark-brown 
and  lustrous. 

Since  the  war,  Miss  Mintzing  has  resided  chiefly  in  New  York.  As 
a  writer,  her  future  lies  before  her.  We  do  not  doubt,  if  she  should 
choose  to  follow  the  thorny  paths  of  literature,  that  she  will  establish 
herself  among  the  authors  of  the  South  whose  reputations  will  be 
something  more  than  ephemeral.  Hitherto  she  has  never  published 
under  her  own  name. 


MARYLAND. 


27 


929 


ANNE  MONCURE  CRANE. 


NEW  and  Original  Novel  "  was  the  heading  of  an  article  in 
the  "  Boston  Transcript,"  written  by  E.  P.  Whipple,  the 
essayist,  in  which  he  says : 


"  The  most  notable  characteristic  of  this  book,  published  by  Ticknor  & 
Fields,  entitled  '  Emily  Chester,'  is  its  originality,  and  it  will  give  novel- 
readers  a  really  novel  impression.  All  the  usual  elements  of  romantic 
interest  are  avoided,  and  new  elements,  heretofore  but  slightly  hinted  in 
English  novels,  are  made  the  substance  of  the  work.  Since  Goethe's  '  Elec 
tive  Affinities,'  we  are  aware  of  no  story  in  which  the  psychology  of  excep 
tional  sentiment  and  passion  is  represented  with  such  keenness  and  force  as 
in  '  Emily  Chester.'  The  play  of  sympathy  and  antipathy,  in  recesses  of  the 
mind  where  will  exerts  no  controlling  influence,  is  exhibited  with  a  patient, 
penetrating,  and  intense  power,  which  fastens  the  reader's  somewhat  reluc 
tant  and  resisting  attention,  and  compels  him  to  take  interest  in  what  has 
no  natural  hold  on  his  healthy  sympathies.  The  character  of  Emily  Chester 
is  not  a  pleasing  one,  but  it  is  deeply  conceived  and  vigorously  developed. 
Max  Crampton  and  Frederic  Hastings  are  also  types  of  character  strongly 
individualized,  and  the  contrasted  magnetism  they  exert  on  the  mind  and 
heart  of  the  heroine  is  vividly  represented.  The  interest  and  power  of  the 
novel  are  concentrated  in  these  three  persons.  The  other  characters  are 
rather  commonplace,  and  seem  to  be  thrown  in  simply  to  give  relief  to  the 
passions  of  the  principal  personages.  In  those  parts  in  which  the  author  is 
not  analyzing  and  representing  the  strange  mental  phenomena  which  consti 
tute  the  fascination  of  the  book,  she  shows  immaturity  both  of  thought  and 
observation '  Emily  Chester '  exhibits  such  palpable  mastery  of  illu 
sive  phases  of  passion  difficult  to  fix  and  portray,  that  it  cannot  fail  to  make 
a  profound  impression  on  the  public." 

"  Emily  Chester  "  was  published  without  a  word  of  preface  to  give 
the  least  hint  of  the  whereabouts  of  the  author,  and  was  not  covered 
with  the  pall  of  "  Great  Southern  Novel !  "  as  is  usually  the  mode 
novels  by  Southern  writers  are  announced.  It  had  made  a  reputation 

931 


932  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

in   the   North,  in   Boston,  the  "Athens  of  America,"  before  it  was 
announced  that  the  author  was  a  lady  of  Baltimore. 
The  Hon.  George  H.  Hilliard  thus  reviews  the  book : 

.  .  .  .  "  We  have  a  work  of  remarkable  originality  and  power,  certainly 
in  these  qualities  entitled  to  rank  side  by  side  with  the  best  productions  of 
American  genius  in  the  department  of  fiction.  The  interest  of  the  book  is 
entirely  derived  from  psychological  sources,  that  is,  from  the  delineation  of 
character,  and  not  from  the  incidents  of  the  narrative,  which  are  of  a  common 
place  character,  and  with  hardly  the  merit  of  probability.  It  reminds  us  of 
two  works  of  fiction  of  a  past  age,  Godwin's  '  Caleb  Williams,'  and  Goethe's 
'  Elective  Affinities,'  but  more  of  the  latter  than  of  the  former.  Indeed, 
'Emily  Chester'  could  hardly  have  been  written  had  not  the  'Elective 
Affinities '  been  written  before  it.  We  may  be  sure  that  the  writer  of  the 
former  is  familiar  with  the  latter.  Imagine  the  'Elective  Affinities,'  with  a 
distinct  moral  aim  superadded,  and  written  with  the  intensity  and  consecra 
tion  of  Godwin,  and  we  get  a  tolerably  fair  impression  of  '  Emily  Chester.' 
....  Emily  Chester  is  a  young  woman  of  radiant  beauty  and  extraordinary 
mental  powers.  One  of  her  lovers  is  a  man  of  iron  will  and  commanding 
intellect,  from  whom  she  nevertheless  recoils  with  an  unconquerable  physical 
or  spontaneous  repulsion.  The  temperament  of  the  other  is  in  harmony 
with  her  wn  ;  she  is  happy  in  his  presence,  and  yet  she  is  ever  conscious  of 
his  intellectual  inferiority,  and  thus  resists  the  influence  of  his  nature  upon 
hers.  Here  is  the  whole  web  and  the  woof  of  the  novel It  is  unques 
tionably  a  work  of  genius.  It  is  fair  to  add  that  it  is  a  very  sad  story 
throughout,  and  thus  not  to  be  recommended  to  those  who  have  sorrows 
enough  of  their  own  not  to  make  them  crave  the  books  that  make  them 
grieve.  It  is  a  web  in  which  flowers  of  gold  and  purple  are  wrought  into  a 
funeral  shroud  of  deepest  black 

"  The  heroine  is  an  impossible  creature.  She  is  a  combination  of  Cleo 
patra,  Harriet  Martineau,  and  Florence  Nightingale.  She  is.  a  being  as 
supernatural  or  preternatural  as  a  centaur  or  griffin.  She  is  a  blending  of 
irreconcilable  elements.  She  is  represented  as  choosing  between  one  lover 
who  satisfies  her  intellect,  and  another  who  gratifies  her  temperament,  as 
coolly  as  she  would  between  a  pear  and  a  peach  at  a  dessert.  Human  beings 
are  not  so  made.  You  cannot  run  a  knife  between  the  intellect  and  the  sen 
suous  nature  in  this  way ;  nor  can  we  think  Max  Crampton  and  Frederic 
Hastings  are  true  to  nature.  They  are  to  real  men  what  Ben  Jonson's  charac 
ters  are  to  Shakspeare's :  they  are  embodiments  of  humors,  and  not  living  flesh 

and  blood And  we  need  hardly  add  that  it  is  not  a  healthy  book. 

We  lay  it  down  with  a  feeling  in  the  mind  similar  to  that  produced  on  the 

body  by  sitting  in  a  room  heated  by  an  air-tight  stove But,  as  has 

been  said,  there  is  only  one  kind  of  book  which  cannot  be  endured,  and  that 


ANNE    MONCUKE    CEANE.  933 

is  the  stupid  kind,  the  book  that  bores  you.  '  Emily  Chester'  will  never  fall 
under  this  condemnation,  for  it  is  a  book  of  absorbing  interest.  From  the 
first  chapter  the  author  seizes  the  attention  with  the  strong  grasp  of  genius, 
and  holds  it  unbroken  to  the  last.  And  when  the  end  comes,  we  lay  the  book 
down  with  a  sort  of  sigh  of  relief  at  the  relaxation  of  fibres  stretched  to  a 
painful  degree  of  tension." 

To  show  plainly  the  attention  this  novel  attracted  among  the  intel 
lectual  portion  of  the  North,  I  give  a  criticism  from  the  pen  of  a  female 
genius  of  New  England,  widely  known  under  her  pseudonym  of  "  Gail 
Hamilton  " : 

"  The  very  common  fault  of  this  book  will  have  a  tendency  to  conceal 
from  the  popular  gaze  its  uncommon  excellence.  It  has  all  the  millinery 
of  a  third-rate  American  novel — the  most  abounding  beauty  in  its  women, 
perfect  manly  grace  in  its  men,  fabulous  wealth  surrounding  the  important 
personages,  with  a  profusion  of  elegant  appurtenances  which,  at  the  present 
rates  of  gold,  reads  like  an  Arabian  Night's  entertainment.  In  style  it  is 
sometimes  careless,  sometimes  slightly  coarse,  and  not  unfrequently  labored. 
It  constantly  falls  into  the  vulgar  error  of  making  all  of  its  outside  women 
pretty,  gossiping,  envious,  malignant,  and  hateful,  with  only  here  and  there 
a  gleam  of  faint  and  altogether  flickering  sunshine,  as  if  womanly  splendor 
were  not  sufficient  of  its  own  shining,  but  must  be  set  off  against  a  black 
background.  The  conversations  are  sometimes  spun  out  to  undue  length, 
and  it  indulges  too  largely  in  philosophy  and  generalizations.  Yet  even 
these  drawbacks  have  their  own  compensations.  The  remarks  and  reflec 
tions,  if  sometimes  a  little  impertinent,  are  generally  sensible  and  shrewd, 
indicating  an  uncommon  depth  and  clearness  of  insight.  The  conversations 
would  occasionally  be  improved  by  abridgment ;  but  they  are  earnest  and 
high-toned 

"  I  do  not  know  that  American  novel  literature  has  produced  any  other 
work  of  the  kind.  Miss  Sheppard's  '  Counterparts '  offers,  so  far  as  I  can 
recollect,  the  only  resemblance  to  be  found  in  the  English  language.  But 
discarding  all  resort  to  hard-featured  fathers,  mercenary  mothers,  family 
feuds,  and  all  manner  of  circumstances,  go  directly  inward,  and  find  in  the 
eternal  mystery  of  the  complex  human  being  all  the  obstacle,  the  passion 
and  purpose  which  life  requires.  This  will  not,  perhaps,  add  to  the  popu 
larity  of  the  book ;  but  it  makes  its  power.  It  may,  indeed,  be  a  stone  of 
stumbling  and  a  rock  of  offence  to  those  conservative  novel-readers  who 
love  to  have  a  story  go  on  in  the  good  old  paths,  with  which  they  have 
become  so  familiar  that  they  can  see  the  end  from  the  beginning.  It  is  so 
comfortable  to  know  of  a  surety  that  the  villain  will  come  to  grief,  and  the 
knight  to  joy,  however  stormy  may  be  the  sea  of  troubles  on  which  he  is 


934  SOUTHLAND     WRITERS. 

tossed.  All  present  pain  is  viewed  with  a  tranquillity  inspired  by  foreknowl 
edge  of  future  happiness.  But  this  book  thrusts  in  upon  all  these  easy-going 
ways.  A  beautiful  woman,  of  her  own  free  will,  marries  a  man  who  is  pas 
sionately  and  most  unselfishly  devoted  to  her,  whom  she  holds  in  profound 
respect  and  reverence,  yet  with  a  feeling  little  short  of  loathing.  What  new 
fangled  notion  is  this  ?  Alas !  it  is  newfangled  only  in  novels,  not  in  life ; 
and  it  is  only  by  failing  to  recognize  these  subtle  yet  all-powerful  facts,  that 
life  has  so  much  confusion.  The  most  careful  students,  as  well  as  mere 
casual  observers,  may  fail  to  comprehend  them ;  but  we  have  learned  much 
when  we  have  learned  that  there  is  mystery,  that  nature  has  her  laws, 
impalpable  but  imperative,  by  obedience  to  which  life  is  perfected,  and  by 
disobedience  destroyed ;  that,  deeper  down  in  the  heart  of  man  than  any 
words  can  penetrate,  are  forces  against  which  it  is  useless  for  even  the  will 
to  contend. 

"  '  Emily  Chester '  presents  this  theory  in  what  seems  to  be  an  exaggerated 
form.  Perhaps,  to  state  a  truth,  it  is  necessary  to  overstate  it.  The  motto 
of  the  title-page  avows  this :  '  It  is  in  her  monstrosities  that  nature  discloses 
to  us  her  secrets.'  Max  and  Emily  are  scarcely  so  much  man  and  woman 
as  an  impersonation  of  magnetism.  But  granting  their  existence,  they  act 
according  to  rigid  natural  laws.  They  are  often  melo-dramatic ;  there  is  a 
certain  overdoing  of  attitude,  gesture,  and  expression,  as  if  a  youthful  hand 
had  traced  the  windings  of  Emily's  inward  experience,  her  changing  rela 
tions  to  Max,  the  effects  of  his  absence  and  presence,  the  mingled  distrust, 
repentance,  regard,  and  gratitude.  Such  things  come  by  special  revelation. 
Emily  herself  is  pure,  and  pure  womanly,  an  intensified  woman  drawn  with 
much  skill  and  an  infinite  pity,  sympathy,  and  tenderness.  Her  mirth,  her 
coquetry,  her  gentleness  and  wilfulness,  her  great  heart-hunger  and  brain 
power,  her  passionate  tastes  and  distastes,  are  a  mighty  relief  after  the  bread- 
and-butter  heroines  who  mostly  trip  it  through  even  our  good  novels.  Max 
is  as  great  an  anomaly,  in  his  way,  as  Emily  in  hers.  From  time  immemo 
rial  the  self-immolation  has  been  appointed  to  woman ;  but  this  man,  open 
ing  his  eyes  to  the  evil  his  indomitable  will  had  wrought  upon  the  woman 
most  dear  to  him,  gave  himself  a  living  sacrifice  for  atonement.  With  stern, 
unwearied  self-denial,  he  bore  the  sharpest  pain,  if  so  he  may  bring  to  her 
a  gleam  of  peace.  He  will  have  more  disciples  in  his  sin  than  in  his  suffer 
ing;  but  it  is  well  to  know  that  such  a  thing  is  possible,  even  in  conception." 

Who  is  the  author  of  this  wonderful  book  ? 

A  young  lady  of  Baltimore,  and  her  first  attempt  at  writing!  It 
seems  strange  to  me  that  when  the  identity  of  the  author  of  "  a  new 
and  original  novel"  became  known  as  being  "a  daughter  of  the 
Southland,"  and  a  second  volume  from  her  pen  appeared,  it  was  almost 
completely  ignored  by  the  "  warm  admirers  "  of  "  Emily  Chester." 


ANNE  MONCURE  CRANE.  935 

Miss  Anne  Moncure  Crane  is  from  a  talented  family.  The  best 
translation  in  English  of  the  celebrated  German  poem,  "Korner's 
Battle  Hymn,"  I  know  of,  was  made  by  a  younger  sister — never  pub 
lished.  The  author  of  "  Emily  Chester  "  was  born  in  the  city  of  Bal 
timore,  and  has  ever  resided  in  that  "city  of  beauty  and  talent." 
"Emily  Chester"  was  her  first  attempt  at  writing.  She  became  an 
authoress  by  the  merest  accident.  Had  any  one  told  her  a  month 
before  she  began  the  book  that  she  would  ever  write  a  novel,  she  would 
have  laughed  at  the  idea.  She  was  twenty  years  old  when  her  book 
was  written.  How  true  is  it  "that  great  events  arise  from  trivial 
causes  ! "  One  evening  some  one  carelessly  suggested  that  a  circle  of 
friends  should  form  an  original  composition  class,  upon  the  plan  of  a 
reading  class —  and  Miss  Crane  contribute  a  novel.  The  plan  was  not 
carried  out,  but  the  idea  of  "  writing  "  had  fallen  upon  fertile  soil,  and 
before  the  next  day  Miss  Crane  resolved  to  seriously  attempt  to  write 
a  book  for  publication.  She  began  it,  and  "Emily  Chester"  was  the 
result  —  she  says,  "  a  greater  surprise  to  me  than  it  could  have  been 
to  any  one  else."  A  very  unusual  case  was  that  of  the  publication 
of  this  book,  and  "  as  an  act  of  justice  to  the  much-maligned  race  of 
publishers,"  we  state  the  case.  When  "Emily  Chester"  was  completed, 
it  was  taken  to  Messrs.  Ticknor  &  Fields  by  a  lady  who  was  a 
stranger  to  them.  She  was  told  that  they  could  not  even  entertain 
the  idea  of  publishing  it,  as  they  were  overcrowded  with  previous  en 
gagements;  but  upon  her  urging  the  point,  she  was  politely  allowed  to 
leave  the  book  for  inspection.  Within  two  weeks  from  that  time  they 
sent  a  contract  for  its  publication,  addressed  to  the  "Author  of 'Emily 
Chester  ; ' "  and  it  was  not  until  Miss  Crane  returned  the  paper  signed  in 
full  that  they  knew  the  name  of  the  writer  whose  novel  they  had  bound 
themselves  to  publish.  They  were  aware  that  it  was  a  first  attempt, 
and  that  the  author  was  a  woman.  Miss  Crane's  literary  life  has  been 
peculiarly  exempt  from  those  trials  and  discouragements  which  tradi 
tion  has  led  us  to  believe  are  almost  inseparable  from  the  career  of  a 
young,  unknown  author.  Miss  Crane  is  a  contributor  of  brilliant 
stories  and  poems  to  our  magazines  —  among  others  to  the  "  Galaxy" 
and  "  Putnam's  Monthly." 

Her  second  book,  entitled  "  Opportunity,"  was  published  at  the  close 
of  1867,  and  was  welcomed  by  the  many  admirers  of  "  Emily  Ches 
ter,"  although  it  did  not  create  such  a  furore.  It  is  thus  noticed  in 
a  Southern  journal,  by  Paul  H.  Hayiie,  the  poet: 


936  SOUTHLAND    WKITEES. 

"  This  is  no  common  romance.  Depending  but  slightly  upon  the  nature 
of  its  plot  and  outward  incidents,  its  power  is  almost  wholly  concentrated 
upon  a  deep,  faithful,  subtle  analysis  of  character.  Indeed,  it  is  rather  a 
series  of  peculiar  psychological  studies,  than  a  novel  in  the  ordinary  sense  of 
the  term.  True  insight,  genuine  imagination,  a  somewhat  unique  experience 
of  life,  are  everywhere  apparent  in  its  elaborate,  careful,  and  not  unfrequently 
profound  portraitures.  Even  the  faults  of  the  work  are  such  as  could  scarce 
ly  have  had  their  origin  in  a  commonplace  mind.  A  morbid,  exaggerated 
force  of  introspection,  laying  bare  to  their  very  roots  the  motives  of  human 
action,  strikes  the  reader  sometimes  with  a  shuddering  distaste,  the  sort  of 
feeling  one  would  experience  in  beholding  too  deep  and  merciless  a  dissec 
tion  of  any  diseased  condition,  whether  of  body  or  heart !  Yet  how  can  one 
fail  to  admire  the  strong  and  subtle  gifts  by  which  such  results  are  attained? 
Moreover,  the  general  purpose  of  the  story  is  noble  and  exalted.  A  purity 
of  aim  some  might  call  transcendental  distinguishes  its  central  morale.  But 
its  unworldly  suggestiveness  is  charming.  Two  male  characters  —  brothers 
—  divide  the  reader's  interest.  One  is  a  brilliant,  susceptible,  but  frivolous 
nature,  possessing,  no  doubt,  capacities  for  good,  yet  too  feeble  to  arrest  and  to 
develop  them.  The  other  is  a  strong,  passionate,  manly,  upright  soul,  who, 
in  the  blackest  hours  of  misfortune  and  doubt,  feels  (as  that  gallant  Chris 
tian  gentleman,  Frederick  Robinson,  was  wont  to  observe)  that  there  are  in 
stinctive  spiritual  truths  —  the  'great  landmarks  of  morality'  —  which  a  man 
(in  the  midnight  of  skepticism)  must  cling  to,  would  he  avoid  destruction. 
These  brothers,  so  diverse  in  temperament,  encounter  and  fall  in  love  with 
the  same  woman.  She  is  little  more  than  a  girl  in  years,  but  her  heart  and 
intellect  are  strangely  precocious  :  and  not  merely  precocious,  but  wonder 
ful  in  the  exceptional  character  of  their  endowments.  Her  fascination  radi 
ates  chiefly  from  within.  To  Grahame  Ferguson  —  the  elder  and  weaker  bro 
ther —  she  is  led  unconsciously  to  give  her  affection. 

"'Ah!'  says  the  author,  referring  to  this  singular  heroine — 'Ah!  the  marvellous  * 
fascination  of  these  beautiful-ugly  women.  To  watch  the  loveliness  they  seem  to  keep 
as  too  sacred  for  ordinary  eyes,  slowly  dawn  and  reach  a  divine  perfection  in  your  sight, 
what  mortal  man  can  withstand  ?  If  it  be  only  a  faint,  momentary  wild-rose  flush  upon 
the  usually  colorless  cheek,  a  single  flash  or  passing  gleam  in  the  lustreless  eyes,  if  you 
know  it  to  be  your  very  own,  that  you  alone  have  created  it,  no  glory  of  Greek  art 
can  so  stir  you !  This  was  the  miracle  Grahame  wrought  daily,  and  yet  so  differently, 
that  he  waited  each  time  in  expectancy  as  uncertain  as  intense.  "  This  is  the  true, 
essential  beauty ! "  he  was  tempted  to  exclaim.  Another  truth  he  awoke  to,  as  he 
listened  to  her  careless  talking,  with  ever-increasing  wonder.  Not  only  was  it  that  he 
recognized  her  absolute  originality,  her  large  structure  of  mind,  but  that  her  thoughts 
seemed  radiant  with  that  gleam  which  "never  was  on  sea  or  land,"  her  sentences  musical 
with  nature's  own  harmony.' 

~  "  Very  speedily,  however,  the  shallow,  sensuous  nature  of  the  man  be- 


AXNE    MONCUEE    CRANE.  937 

trays  itself  by  an  irrecoverable  act  of  self-committal,  and  there  is  a  passion 
ate  though  secret  renunciation  of  him  on  the  part  of  Harvey  Berney,  (the 
heroine's  name,)  which  is  depicted  with  a  refined  and  searching  skill,  a  de 
gree  of  mind-knowledge  and  soul-knowledge  that  are  unquestionably  remark 
able.  We  cannot  follow  the  various  complications  of  the  narrative.  It  is 
at  a  later  date  that  Grahame's  brother,  Douglas,  makes  the  acquaintance  of 
Miss  Berney.  These  two  were  evidently  fitted  for  each  other;  strength  to 
strength,  purity  to  purity,  passion  to  passion.  But  one  of  those  errors;  ap 
parently  so  trifling,  in  reality  pregnant  with  fate  and  death,  came  between 
and  separated  them. 

"  Douglas  was  not  permitted  even  to  tell  his  love.  Yet  how  the  true,  loyal, 
noble  spirit  rises  gradually  from  the  depression  of  the  blow,  and  finds  com 
fort  in  the  arms  of  duty,  which  are  finally  transformed  into  the  arms  of  hap 
piness  ! 

"  Grahame's  destiny  is  of  another  and  sadder  kind.  It  never  occurred  to 
him  that 

'  To  bear  is  to  conquer  our  fate.' 

Therefore  he  yields  to  disappointment  and  all  its  insidious  temptations, 
sinks  lower  and  lower  in  the  moral  scale,  and  may  finally  be  regarded  as  one 
of  those  dead  souls  which,  though  freed  from  absolute  sensuality,  are  yet  the 
'  bounden  slaves '  of  ennui,  sloth,  discontent,  and  that  host  of  effeminate 
vices  which  in  certain  moods  are  more  revolting  to  us  than  downright,  mon 
strous,  satanic  wickedness. 

"  Underneath  the  surface  of  Miss  Crane's  story  and  its  characterizations, 
there  runs  a  vein  of  meaning  which  only  the  attentive  reader  will  clearly 
comprehend.  She  shows  how  '  opportunities '  may  be  neglected  to  the  utter 
misery  of  the  individual ;  but  she  rightly  and  philosophically  represents 
these  '  opportunities '  as  often  coming  in  such  '  questionable  guise,'  that 
an  inspired  foresight  alone  could  be  expected  to  take  advantage  of  them. 
Thus,  it  is  not  in  the  ignorant  neglect  of  '  opportunity  '  that  she  pretends  to 
find  the  seeds  of  guilt  or  folly,  but  in  that  illogical  and  disloyal  faithlessness 
which  sinks  weakly  under  the  ban  of  circumstance,  accepts  tamely  its  awards, 
and  never,  with  the  superb  audacity  of  the  '  GREAT  HEART,'  strives  to  force 
a  way  upward,  in  the  very  teeth  of  what  we  are  too  apt  to  call  falsely  '  provi 
dential  decrees.'  In  this  way  the  unlucky  Grahame  sinks  to  a  level  below 
our  contempt.  Pursuing  an  opposite  course,  his  brother  not  only  vanquishes 
the  desperation  and  despair  which  beset  his  reason,  but  grasps,  finally,  the 
serene  rewards  of  an  unselfish,  manful  endurance. 

"  We  close  our  notice  of  Miss  Crane's  production  with  the  remark  that  no 
tale  has  recently  appeared,  North  or  South,  which  is  so  full  of  rich  evidences 
of  genuine  psychological  power,  a  profound  study  of  character  in  some  of 
its  most  unique  spiritual  and  mental  manifestations,  and  fervid  artistic  aspi 
rations,  destined  to  embody  themselves  gloriously  in  the  future." 


938  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Miss  Crane  looks  the  "  woman  of  genius,"  having  large  features,  her 
nose  aquiline  and  prominent,  her  mouth  large,  but  rather  pleasant,  her 
chin  firm,  her  brow  moderate  and  well  arched :  her  eyes  are  dark,  and 
have  a  bright  outlook  on  this  world ;  her  hair  is  dark  and  very  luxuri 
ant — she  wears  it  piled  up  according  to  the  present  "Japanese"  style. 
She  is  tall,  but  not  ungraceful.  She  prides  herself  on  making  all  her 
own  .clothes,  and  being  able  to  do  everything  for  herself,  which  is  very 
commendable.  A  friend  calls  her  "an  universal  genius"  who  is  very 
ambitious,  thinking  "  an  intellectual  woman  ought  to  do  everything." 
The  following  characteristic  paragraph  expresses  so  much,  that  we 
give  it  place  here,  against  our  better  judgment  perhaps  :  "  In  fact,  the 
author  of  'Emily  Chester'  is  a  steam-engine  of  a  woman,  a  regular 
locomotive,  and  flies  desperately  along  the  railroad  of  life ;  and  one 
must  either  subside  into  the  train  of  cars  she  leads  quietly,  or  be  run 
over,  perhaps  crushed  to  infinitesimal  atoms."  Miss  Crane  has  formed 
an  "  ideal "  of  what  an  "  authoress  "  ought  to  be,  and  she  tries  to  be  it ! 
Miss  Crane  is  the  centre  in  her  galaxy  of  nebulous  stars  in  the  Monu 
mental  City. 


WOEDS  TO  A  "LIED  OHNE  WORTE." 

All  earth  has  that  is  rare  or  is  treasurable : 

Long  I  searched  for  a  token,  in  vain, 
Worthy  to  speak  of  this  love  so  immeasurable, 
Worthy  to  be  both  my  gift  and  her  gain. 

Nor  palace  nor  glory, 

Nor  name  high  in  story, 
These,  not  these  would  I  bring  to  my  love ; 

But  what  God  gave  me 

To  raise  and  to  save  me, 
This,  't  is  this  I  would  bring  to  my  love. 

Years  go  by,  and  they  take  what  is  perishing, 
This  world's  fashion,  which  passeth  away ; 
That  which  I  give  will  need  but  love's  cherishing, 
Ever  to  live  and  to  bloom  as  to-day. 

Love's  silver  lining 

Through  life's  dark  clouds  shining, 
This,  'tis  this  I  would  bring  to  my  love; 

All  I  have  shared  with  none, 

All  I  have  dared  with  none, 
This,  all  this  I  would  bring  to  my  love. 


ANNE    M ON CURE    CRANE.  939 

Pleasure  lures,  and  we  follow  its  beckoning  ; 

Fame  and  honor  seem  life's  best  ends  ; 
Aught  that  may  stand  in  our  way  little  reckoning, 
Onward  we  press,  whomsoe'er  it  offends. 

But  when  Love's  star  rises, 

Nought  else  the  soul  prizes, 
As  earth  sinks  to  darkness  when  heaven  shows  light, 

Then  seem  these  empty  hands 

Richer  than  golden  strands, 
With  love,  and  love  only,  to  bring  to  my  love. 


WINTER  WIND. 

Restless  wind  of  drear  December, 

Listened  to  by  dying  ember, 
Do  you  hold  the  same  sad  meaning  to  all  other  hearts  this  night  ? 

Sweeping  over  land  and  ocean 

With  your  mighty,  rhythmic  motion, 
Has  your  hasting  brought  swift  wasting  to  their  hope  and  joy  and  light? 

To  them,  does  your  passing  darken 
Night's  black  shadow  as  they  hearken  ; 

Filling  it  with  mystic  phantoms,  such  as  throng  some  haunted  spot, 
With  the  ghosts  of  joys  and  pleasures, 
Tortures  now  that  once  were  treasures  ? 

Does  your  sighing  seem  the  crying Trf  a  soul  for  what  is  not? 

Does  the  same  weird,  weary  moaning 

Seem  to  underlie  your  toning, 
Whether  risen  in  your  strength,  or  sunk  to  wailing,  fitful  blast  ? 

Do  they  hear  wild,  distant  dirges 

In  your  falls  or  in  your  surges  ? 
Does  your  swelling  seem  the  knelling  for  a  dead,  unburied  Past? 


"FAITH  AND  HOPE." 

That  night,  after  her  mother  had  fallen  asleep,  Harvey,  scenting  tobacco- 
smoke  upon  the  porch,  stole  down  stairs  for  a  quiet  talk  with  Dr.  Dan,  or 
perhaps  an  hour  of  silent  sitting,  as  of  yore.  At  first,  it  proved  to  be  the 
latter ;  for,  taking  her  childish  place  at  his  feet,  and  laying  her  head  upon 
his  knee,  he  put  out  his  hand,  and  softly  stroked  her  hair  with  the  familiar 


940  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

gesture,  but  said  nothing.  Except  the  necessary  aging  with  years,  Dr.  Dan 
was  just  the  Dr.  Dan  of  old.  Presently,  he  began  asking  questions  about 
her  future  plans ;  and  then  the  conversation  came  back  to  the  present,  and 
even  to  the  past. 

"  Harvey,"  he  asked  at  last,  "  do  you  ever  intend  to  marry  ?  " 

The  inquiry  had  arisen  somewhat  naturally  from  others  which  he  had  put 
concerning  a  strong,  true-hearted  gentleman,  whose  apparently  hopeless 
devotion  to  Harvey  seemed  but  to  deepen  and  strengthen  with  the  deepen 
ing  and  strengthening  of  his  nature. 

"  That  is  as  God  pleases,"  she  answered,  rather  sadly.  "  Uncle,"  she  con 
tinued  presently,  and  her  voice  had  changed  perceptibly,  "  I  was  wounded 
terribly,  early  in  the  battle  of  life,  and  since  then  I  have  been  among  the 
halt  and  maimed." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it,"  he  replied,  and  his  thoughts  went  sorrowfully  and 
silently  back  to  those  early  days. 

"  Harvey,"  he  said  at  last,  and  there  was  something  like  despair  in  his 
tone,  "I  want  you  to  answer  me  one  question  truthfully.  You  have  worked 
and  won ;  you  have  been  faithful  to  what  God  gave  you,  and  have  striven 
hard  to  choose  the  better  part:  now  tell  me,  has  anything  in  existence 
yielded  you  real  satisfaction  ?  I  frittered  away  my  strength  and  purpose ;  1 
wasted  my  substance  of  heart  and  soul  in  riotous  living,  and  the  punishment 
of  spiritual  starvation  rests  rightfully  upon  me:  you  did  none  of  these  things; 
yet  tell  me  what  essential,  soul-satisfying  element  has  life  ever  brought 
you?" 

For  a  moment  or  two  the  woman  sat  motionless,  not  looking  at  him,  nor 
at  the  broad,  moonlit  heavens  above  her ;  but  with  eyes  fixed  upon  the  low, 
dark  horizon,  and  filled  with  a  hungry,  wistful  light. 

"  I  shall  be  satisfied  when  I  awake  with  His  likeness." 

This  faith  and  hope  were  all  she  had  rescued  from  that  failure  which  she 
called  her  life.  Ah,  me !  from  the  beginning,  has  any  human  heart  ever 
truly  rescued  more? 


LYDIA  CRANE. 

~VTOT  noted  in  the  "literature"  of  our  country,  yet  we  cannot  con- 
_1AI  scientiously  omit  a  place  in  our  volume  to  the  translator  of  the 
beautiful  "  Battle  Prayer  "  that  we  give.  If  she  so  desired,  she  could 
occupy  a  high  position  among  our  "  Southland  Writers,"  as  a  transla 
tor  and  as  an  "  original  writer." 

Miss  Lydia  Crane  is  a  daughter  of  the  late  Mr.  William  Crane,  for 
many  years  a  merchant  in  the  city  of  Baltimore;  a  man  of  wealth, 
noted  for  his  extensive  contributions  to  the  Baptist  Church  and  chari 
table  institutions.  She  is  a  younger  sister  of  the  authoress  of  "  Emily 
Chester  "  and  "  Opportunity." 

Says  a  lady  who  has  reverence,  admiration,  and  true,  respectful  af 
fection  for  her  :  "  Lydia  Crane  is  a  noble,  suffering  woman,  a  martyr 
all  her  life  to  nervous  disease  and  curvature  of  the  spine,  but  who 
rises  above  pain  and  wretched  health,  and  studies  mathematics  when 
every  nerve  is  quivering  with  anguish." 


KORNER'S  BATTLE  PEAYER. 

©ebet  in  ber  @djlac()t. 

Father,  I  cry  to  Thee ! 
Rolling  around  me  the  smoke  of  the  battle, 
Lightnings  surround  me  and  war's  thunders  rattle, 
Leader  of  armies,  I  cry  to  Thee  1 

Father,  lead  Thou  me  ! 

Father,  lead  Thou  me  ! 
Lead  me  to  victory,  lead  me  to  dying ; 
Lord,  by  Thy  word,  be  my  labor  and  trying ; 

Through  this  world's  strife  my  guide  deign  to  be. 
My  God,  I  discern  Thee ! 

941 


942  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

My  God,  I  discern  Thee ! 
As  in  the  murmur  of  leaves  that  are  falling, 
So  in  the  thunder  of  battle  appalling, 

Fountain  of  Mercy,  I  recognize  Thee  1 

Father,  bless  Thou  me  I 

Father,  bless  Thou  me ! 
To  Thy  hands  alone  my  life  is  commended ; 
That  Thou  hast  ordained,  by  Thee  must  be  ended ; 
In  life  and  in  death  wilt  Thou  bless  me! 

Father,  I  praise  Thee ! 

Father,  I  praise  Thee ! 
If  war  ever  good  to  the  earth  has  afforded, 
The  holiest  cause  we  have  saved  and  rewarded : 
Failing  or  conquering,  I  praise  Thee  I 

To  Thee  all  surrendered  be ! 

To  Thee  all  surrendered  be  I 
Though  from  my  heart  my  life-blood  be  flowing, 
When  from  my  lips  my  last  prayer  is  going, 
To  Thee,  my  God,  I  surrender  me  I 
Father,  I  cry  to  Thee  ! 


GEORGIE  A.  HULSE  McLEOD. 

MRS.  McLEOD  is  well  known  as  presiding  over  the  "  Southern 
Literary  Institute,"  of  Baltimore,  Maryland  —  a  seminary  for 
young  ladies  which  is  well  known  throughout  the  United  States.  That 
Mrs.  McLeod  is  a  generous,  noble-souled  lady,  the  fact  that  she  gives 
free  tuition  to  one  young  lady,  the  daughter  of  a  deceased  Confederate 
soldier,  from  each  Southern  State,  amply  attests. 

Mrs.  McLeod  was  born  in  Florida,  at  the  Naval  Hospital  near  Pen- 
sacola,  of  which  her  father,  Dr.  Isaac  Hulse,  was  then  surgeon.  She 
was  left  an  orphan  in  infancy. 

Her  first  books,  "  Sunbeams  and  Shadows  "  and  "  Buds  and  Blos 
soms,"  were  published  in  New  York,  in  1851.  Two  years  after  the  ap 
pearance  of  her  books,  she  was  married  to  Dr.  A.  W.  McLeod,  of  Hal 
ifax,  N.  S.,  where  they  resided  for  some  time.  Her  first  volume  after 
her  marriage  was  "  Ivy  Leaves  from  an  Old  Homestead,"  which  was 
followed  by  "  Thine  and  Mine ;  or,  The  Step-mother's  Reward,"  pub 
lished  by  Derby  &  Jackson,  in  1857  —  a  book  that  was  received  with 
much  favor,  and  inculcating  an  excellent  moral,  showing  that  a  step 
mother  may  supply  a  mother's  place  in  kindness  and  care. 

Mrs.  McLeod,  since  the  close  of  the  war,  has  published  two  little 
volumes,  "Sea -Drift"  and  "Bright  Memories."  The  former  is  a 
little  story,  dealing  mainly  with  school-girls,  their  ways  and  thoughts, 
their  joys  and  trials  — a  charming  book,  pure,  healthful,  and  inspiring. 

Mrs.  McLeod  has  been  a  constant  contributor  to  magazines,  etc., 
North  and  South,  under  the  signature  of  "Flora  Neale,"  and  other 
noms  de  plume. 

Mrs.  McLeod  is  a  very  industrious  writer,  conducting  a  large  school 
successfully,  and  considering  her  pen-work  as  a  recreation. 

She  has  recently  completed  a  book  for  juveniles,  entitled  "Standing 
Guard,"  and  a  novel,  the  title  of  which  is  very  inviting,  viz.,  "  The 
Old,  Old  Story." 

Mrs.  McLeod  also  has  in  preparation  a  First-Class  Reader,  intended 
for  the  senior  class  of  the  Southern  Literary  Institute,  for  which  some 

of  the  most  noted  writers  have  contributed. 

943 


944  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 


MINE! 

The  fresh  green  robes  spring  had  given  to  the  earth  became  gorgeous  with 
the  many-colored  blossoms  springing  up  everywhere.  The  June  roses  clam 
bered  over  the  lattice-work,  and  sent  in  on  the  breath  of  the  south  wind  a 
perfumed  greeting,  to  woo  into  the  summer  air  the  happy-hearted. 

Never,  to  Mrs.  Rivers,  had  the  summer  been  so  fair,  the  flowers  so  lovely. 
A  joy  within  had  shed  an  influence  over  outward  things  —  a  new,  deep  joy ; 
for,  with  the  summer  blossoms,  a  bud  of  beauty,  a  living  floweret,  gave  an 
added  charm  to  home.  A  murmur  of  praise  trembled  on  her  lips,  and  a 
happy  light  was  in  the  soft,  dark  eyes,  as  she  folded  the  unconscious  little 
one  so  lovingly  to  her  heart,  murmuring,  "Mine,  all  my  own!" 

A  little  child !  How  the  memory  of  Him  who  was  cradled  in  a  manger 
comes  back  upon  us  when  we  look  upon  such  helplessness !  Its  very  weak 
ness  has  the  power  of  twining  about  proud  hearts  a  chain  of  love  and  pity, 
that  even  man's  strong  hand  may  not  unbind. 

We  bless  little  children,  for  their  presence  bringeth  purity  and  joy. 
Around  them  cluster  affections  that  are  nearer  to  the  love  of  heaven ;  and 
when,  from  one  dwelling  and  another,  the  timid  doves  are  won  heavenward, 
their  flitting  leaves  a  void  which  may  not  easily  be  filled. 

"Mine!"  What  a  spell  in  that  simple  word  —  a  strangely  solemn  influ 
ence.  So  to  Grace  it  was.  "  Mine  "  is  an  added  charge  —  an  immortal  spirit, 
which  must  learn  through  me  the  way  to  live  —  the  how  to  die.  Far  away 
into  the  future  her  thoughts  were  fast  flitting,  weaving,  thus  early,  visions  of 
beauty  yet  to  open  upon  the  baby  dreamer.  But  as  shades  shut  out  the  sun 
light,  so  darker  thoughts  were  blending  with  them.  What  if  she  were  called 
away  ere  it  should  learn  to  tread  life's  changing  way  ?  Even  thus  another 
had  been  taken  from  those  leaning  upon  her  love  —  even  thus,  for  the  young 
voices  that  were  echoing  around  gave  to  her  the  name  lisped  first  to  one  de 
parted.  It  was  a  sad  memory,  but  one  which  made  them  seem  the  dearer,  a 
more  precious  charge.  The  new  tie  that  so  blessed  her  should  not  weaken 
their  claim,  but,  as  a  pure  and  cherished  link,  bind  them  more  closely  together. 


THE  LOST  TREASURE. 

The  blue  fades  out  from  the  fair  summer  sky, 
And  my  flowers  have  drooped  their  bright  buds  ; 

The  winds  of  the  autumn  are  scattering  the  leaves, 
And  chanting  a  dirge  o'er  their  heads. 

So  the  love  that  made  earth  always  summer  to  me, 
Has  failed  me  and  left  me  alone ; 


GEORGIE    A.     HULSE    McLEOD.  945 

I  sit  by  the  ashes -all  cold  on  the  hearth, 
And  weep  for  the  light  that  is  gone. 

I  set  up,  unseen  by  a  stranger's  cold  eye, 

A  stone  in  my  heart's  secret  shrine : 
"In  memory  of"  — and  a  name  is  thereon, 

The  name  of  this  lost  love  of  mine. 
I  prayed  for  him  nightly ;  I  blessed  him  each  day, 

The  love  and  the  blessing  he  scorns  ; 
He  has  crushed  from  my  path  the  roses  I  loved, 

And  leaves  me  all  pierced  by  the  thorns. 

But  murmur  not,  heart  —  poor,  sorrowful  heart! 

We  will  keep  loving  vigil  together; 
It  may  be  some  day  he  will  seek  us  again, 

When  with  him  'tis  less  sunshiny  weather. 
Let  us  patiently  wait,  and  pray,  and  love  on  ; 

Kindly  welcome  him  back,  should  he  come ; 
But  if  not,  the  rich  treasures  we  lose  here  on  earth, 

May  be  found  in  a  heavenly  home. 


"  STONEWALL." 

"  Let  my  men  have  the  name ;  it  belongs  more  to  them  than  to  me."  —  Jackson's  words. 

Weep  for  the  mighty  dead, 

The  nation's  joy  and  pride ; 
Send  forth  the  mournful  tidings 

From  hill  and  mountain-side. 
Virginia,  shroud  thy  banners ; 

Thou  had'st  no  nobler  son ; 
Weep,  fettered  Maryland,  for  he 

Thy  freedom  could  have  won. 

Weep  for  the  hero  chieftain 

Who  met  your  greatest  need : 
Each  Southern  home  is  darkened, 

Each  Southern  heart  must  bleed. 
A  thousand  would  have  fallen 

To  win  him  from  the  grave : 
What  were  a  thousand  lives  to  his, 

The  good,  the  true,  the  brave  ? 
28 


946  SOUTHLAND     WRITERS. 

Weep  for  the  good  man  fallen, 

Ye  mothers  and  ye  wives ; 
Teach  your  children  how  his  virtues 

May  brighten  their  young  lives. 
And  to  his  pure  example 

Each  mother  point  her  son ; 
So,  though  dead,  he  yet  shall  live, 

As  liveth  Washington! 

Weep  for  the  great  and  gifted; 

We  all  have  cause  for  tears, 
For  him  in  whom  shone  brightly 

Each  virtue  that  endears; 
And  nightly  in  our  praying 

For  those  who  rule  our  land, 
At  his  dear  name  we  falter, 

Then  pray  for  Stonewall's  band. 

When  the  trumpet  calls  to  battle, 

They'll  miss  the  olden  spell, 
That  ever  led  to  victory, 

O'er  mountain,  brake,  and  dell. 
They'll  miss  his  voice  in  battle, 

And  in  the  hour  of  prayer, 
By  council  and  by  camp-fire ; 

They'll  miss  him  everywhere. 

Oh,  wreathe  your  brightest  banners 

With  cypress  that  shall  wave 
Above  the  spot  ye  hallow 

As  Stonewall  Jackson's  gravel 
Then,  with  reverence  and  love, 

Years  hence  shall  pilgrims  stand, 
Sweet  memories  to  garner 

Of  Stonewall  and  his  band 


TEXAS. 


947 


MRS.  FANNIE  A.  D.  DARDEN. 

HE  subject  of  this  brief  article  is  a  native  of  Texas.  She 
belongs  to  a  thoroughly  Southern  stock.  Her  father,  Gen 
eral  Mosely  Baker,  a  native  of  the  "  Old  Dominion  State," 
was  one  of  Texas's  most  distinguished  soldiers  during  her 
struggle  with  Mexico  for  independence,  and,  after  peace  was  declared, 
was  her  bright,  particular  star  of  legal  acumen  and  forensic  eloquence. 
Her  mother  was  the  only  daughter  of  Colonel  Pickett,  of  North  Caro 
lina,  and  sister  of  the  historian  of  Alabama,  in  which  State  Fannie 
was  educated. 

As  a  lady  of  birth  and  culture,  as  a  litterateur  of  taste  and  genius, 
as  a  native  Southerner,  and  true,  unswerving  "  daughter  of  the  Con 
federacy,"  as  the  wife  of  a  gallant  officer  —  Captain  William  Darden, 
of  Hood's  Texas  Brigade  —  Mrs.  Darden's  patent  of  nobility  is  clear 
and  unmistakable,  and  therefore,  with  pride  and  pleasure,  Texas  pre 
sents  her  among  "  Southland  Writers  "  as  one  of  her  representative 
women. 


THE  OLD  BRIGADE. 

Hood's  gallant  old  brigade ! 
A.h !  how  the  heart  thrills,  and  the  pulses  leap 

When  once  again  those  well-known  words  are  spoken, 
Eending  aside  the  clouds  that  darkly  keep 

The  present  from  the  past,  and  bring  a  token 

From  that  weird,  shadowy  land,  whose  silence  is  unbroken  ! 
Hood's  gallant  old  brigade !  what  memories  throng 

With  the  swift  rush  as  of  a  torrent  leaping ; 
And  far-off  strains  of  high,  heroic  song 

Come  like  a  rolling  wave  majestic  sweeping, 

When  that  mute  chord  is  struck  which  stirs  our  souls  to  weeping ! 

949 


950  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

And  was  it  not  a  dream,  those  glorious  days 

When  hope  her  banner  proudly  waved  before  us ; 

When,  in  the  genial  light  of  freedom's  blaze, 
We  lived  and  breathed  with  her  bright  heaven  o'er  u.s, 
While  every  hill  and  vale  rang  out  her  lofty  chorus  ? 

When  our  loved  State  (whose  one  bright,  glorious  star 
Her  lonely  vigil  keeps  o'er  earth  and  ocean) 

Poured  forth  her  sons  at  the  first  cry  of  war, 
Which  thrilled  each  soul  with  patriot  emotion, 
And  claimed  from  those  brave  hearts  their  loftiest  devotion. 

Nay,  't  was  no  dream,  those  four  long  years,  when  war 
With  gloating  triumph  rode  her  bloody  car, 
Dragging,  enchained,  o'er  fierce  and  stormy  fields, 
Her  bleeding  victims  at  her  chariot  wheels. 
Nay,  't  was  no  dream,  though  vanished  are  the  days 

When  glory's  splendid  pageant  moved  before  us, 
Though  now  no  more  is  seen  the  lurid  blaze 

Which  from  each  gory  field  lit  up  the  heaven  o'er  us  — 
Though  fallen  is  that  flag,  once  proudly  floating 

Above  the  battle's  roar  where  heroes  fought 
With  more  than  Spartan  valor,  there  devoting 

Those  hearts,  whose  flame  from  freedom's  shrine  was  caught, 

To  that  loved  cause,  the  freedom  which  they  sought. 

Hood's  gallant  old  brigade !  where  are  they  now  ? 

Those  souls  of  fire,  who  on  the  bloody  plain 
Of  proud  Manassas  swept  the  usurping  foe 

Before  them,  as  the  rushing  hurricane 
Its  fatal  vengeance  wreaks  and  spreads  its  mighty  woe. 
Oh !  where  are  those  whose  blood  baptized  the  soil 

Of  Sharpsburg  and  the  sombre  AVilderness, 
Who,  through  long  years  of  strife,  and  pain,  and  toil, 

No  want  could  sadden,  and  no  power  depress  — 
Who  charged  the  foe  on  Malvern's  fatal  hill, 

And  where  the  mountain's  brow  frowns  darkly  down 
On  Boonsboro',  and  on  the  historic  field 

Where  Richmond  looked  on  deeds  whose  high  renown 
Amazed  the  world,  and  in  the  valley  deep 
Where  Chickamauga's  heroes  gently  sleep  ? 

But  few  remain  of  those,  who,  side  by  side, 
Together  braved  the  storm ;  and  far  and  wide 


FANNIE    A.     D.     DARDEN.  951 

Hood's  Texans  sleep  a  dreamless  sleep,  nor  mark 
The  times  nor  changes,  nor  the  heavy  cloud 

That  wraps  their  once-loved  land  in  pall  so  dark. 
The  past  has  fled,  but  thickly  memories  crowd 

Upon  us,  and  the  phantom  years  return 
With  distant  echoes  from  its  shadowy  shore. 

Our  bosoms  throb,  our  hearts  within  us  burn ; 
We  hear  again  the  deep  artillery's  roar, 

And  see  our  banner  in  the  light  of  day 
Borne  high  aloft  upon  the  buoyant  air ; 

And  columns  deep  of  those  who  wore  the  gray 
Are  marshalled  as  of  yore  —  the  foe  to  dare. 

The  past  comes  once  again,  and  memories  throng 
With  the  swift  rush  as  of  a  torrent  leaping  • 

And  far-off  strains  of  high,  heroic  song 
Come  like  a  rolling  wave  majestic  sweeping, 
When  that  mute  chord  is  struck  which  stirs  our  souls  to  weeping. 

The  past  comes  once  again,  but  stays  not  long ; 
Its  forms  dissolve,  its  glorious  splendors  fade, 

But  still  is  heard  the  burden  of  its  song : 

And  distant  ages  shall  the  strain  prolong, 
Which  tells  thy  immortal  deeds,  Hood's  gallant  old  brigade ! 


MRS.  MAUD  J.  YOUNG. 

MRS.  M.  J.  YOUNG,  daughter  of  Col.  N.  Fuller,  Houston,  Texas, 
is  a  native  of  North  Carolina.  Through  her  father  she  is  a  lineal 
descendant  of  John  Rolf  and  his  wife,  Pocahontas,  and  blood  kindred 
of  the  Randolphs  of  "  Turkey  Island "  and  "  Roanoke,"  and  of  the 
Boilings,  of  Virginia.  Her  great-grandfather,  Michael  Pacquenett,  a 
Huguenot  from  Bordeaux,  France,  came  to  this  country  after  the  revoca 
tion  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  and  is  mentioned  in  Hawkes's  History  of 
North  Carolina  as  a  freeholder  in  that  State  in  1723. 

On  her  mother's  side  she  is  descended  from  the  Dunbars,  Braggs,  and 
Braxtons,  of  Maryland  and  Virginia  ;  and  the  Marshalls,  of  Marsh 
Place,  Essex,  England.  Her  grandfather,  Dr.  John  Marshall,  a  man 
of  vast  erudition  and  finished  accomplishments  of  mind  and  manner, 
was  educated  at  Eton  and  Oxford ;  Trinity  College,  Oxford,  confer 
ring  upon  him  two  degrees.  After  completing  his  education,  during  a 
travelling  tour  in  this  country,  he  met  Miss  Mary  Bragg,  (aunt  of  Gen 
eral  Bragg,  of  the  Confederate  Army,)  and  became  so  enamored  of  the 
fair  American  that  he  did  not  return  to  England  until  he  had  wooed 
and  won  her  for  his  wife.  Their  youngest  daughter  is  the  mother  of  the 
subject  of  this  sketch. 

Miss  Fuller  was  married  in  her  twentieth  year  to  Dr.  S.  O.  Young, 
of  South  Carolina,  a. man  of  superior  mind,  thorough  cultivation,  and 
elegant  address.  His  family  are  connected  by  ties  of  blood  and  fre 
quent  intermarriage  with  the  Bonners,  Lees,  Pressleys,  Calhouns,  and 
Bonhams,  families  whose  names  are  interwoven  with  the  literary,  po 
litical,  judicial,  religious,  and  military  history  of  South  Carolina  since 
the  first  Revolution.  He  died  the  first  year  of  their  marriage,  leaving 
an  only  son,  to  whose  education  and  training  Mrs.  Young's  life  has 
been  devoted.  This  son  is  now,  after  having  completed  his  college  stu 
dies  under  General  Lee  at  Lexington,  pursuing  the  study  o.f  his  pro 
fession  at  the  Medical  School  in  New  Orleans,  and  bids  fair  to  be  a 
worthy  representative  of  his  family  name  and  honors. 

After  showing  Mrs.  Young  to  be  so  truly  a  daughter  of  the  South, 
it  need  scarcely  be  added  that  she  was  true  to  the  traditions  of  her 

952 


MAUD    J.    YOUNG.  953 

race  in  the  late  struggle.  During  the  war,  her  pen,  guided  by  the 
thrilling  impulses  of  her  soul,  dropped  words  of  comfort  and  songs  of 
(ire  that  soothed  the  souls  and  inspired  the  hearts  of  her  countrymen 
from  the  Potomac  to  the  Rio  Grande.  The  5th  Regiment  of  Hood's 
Texas  Brigade  sent  their  worn  and  bloody  flag  home  to  her,  after  it 
had  been  covered  with  glory  on  a  hundred  battle-fields.  She  was  en 
shrined  in  thousands  of  stern,  true  hearts,  under  the  title  of  "  The  Con 
federate  Lady  "  and  "  The  Soldier's  Friend."  The  commanding  gene 
ral  of  the  Trans-Mississippi  Department  caused  her  appeals  to  be  pub 
lished  by  thousands  and  distributed  through  the  army  during  the  dark 
days  after  Lee's  surrender,  when  it  was  still  hoped  that  Texas  would 
constitute  herself  the  refuge  and  bulwark  of  that  cause  which  none 
could  deem  then  "  lost."  General  Kirby  Smith,  General  Magruder, 
General  Joseph  Shelby,  and  "  The  Confederate  Lady  "  came  out  in  a 
paper  addressed  to  the  "  Soldiers  and  Citizens  of  Texas,  New  Mexico, 
and  Arizona."  This  sheet,  whose  thrilling  and  soul-stirring  appeals 
were  enough  to  have  created  heroic  resolutions  under  the  very  ribs 
of  death,  was  printed  by  military  command,  and  posted  in  the  towns 
and  served  broadcast  over  camps  and  country. 

Since  the  war,  Mrs.  Young  has  in  all  her  writings  made  more  or 
less  practical  application  of  her  subjects  to  the  times ;  comforting,  con 
soling,  and  encouraging  her  people  —  yet  never  bating  one  jot  or  tittle 
of  her  convictions  concerning  the  past.  To  fail  is  not  to  be  wrong,  we 
can  acknowledge  defeat  without  believing  ourselves  in  error,  is  her 
maxim.  A  distinguished  officer  of  General  "  Stonewall "  Jackson's 
regiment,  after  a  visit  to  Texas,  writes  of  her  as  "  the  vestal  matrjn, 
guarding  with  religious  and  patriotic  devotion  the  home-altars  of  her 
beloved  State." 

In  an  essay  entitled  "  Weimar,"  she  exclaims  : 

"  Shall  any  young  Southron  fall  into  despair,  or  feel  that  he  can  never 
achieve  greatness  or  distinction,  now  that  his  patrimonial  acres  and  slaves 
are  gone,  when  he  reads  the  great  Schiller  congratulating  himself  upon  the 
possession  of  an  income  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  dollars?  Go  to  your 
libraries,  my  young  countrymen,  and  read  the  splendid  thoughts  that  God 
sent  Schiller  in  his  poverty,  and  see  how,  in  his  humble  cottage,  in  the  capital 
of  a  duchy  whose  entire  -territory  is  scarcely  larger  than  your  plantation,  he 
made  a  glorious  fame,  and  crowned  the  brow  of  his  native  land  with  wreaths 
as  immortal  as  her  mountains,  and  beautiful  and  bright  as  the  sparkling 
waves  of  her  broad,  blue  Rhine  I " 


954  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Again  she  writes : 

"  To  contemplate  Weimar,  her  insignificant  territory,  her  poverty,  her 
weakness,  her  dependence,  and  to  see  her  become  the  nursing  mother  of  the 
whole  German  Empire,  and  that  too,  not  by  wealth,  or  arms,  or  diplomacy, 
but  simply  through  the  mental  powers  of  her  children,  we  are  constrained 
to  admit  that  the  grandest  possibilities  of  humanity  lie  within  the  grasp  of 
every  condition ;  and  that  the  watchword  of  youth  should  be  that  terse  but 
comprehensive  command  of  the  Bible,  'Despise  not  the  day  of  small  things.' 
The  best  things  of  this  world  have  owed  nothing  to  extraneous  circumstances 
—  the  power  has  been  from  within  —  fashioning,  elevating,  and  purifying  the 
individual,  then  the  masses.  No  thought  of  failure  should  weaken  your 
energies.  '  Heart  within,  and  God  overhead.'  You  have  not  only  a  right 
to  the  brightest  hopes,  but  a  solemn  duty  to  make  those  hopes  verities." 

Mrs.  Young  has  written  under  several  noms  de  plume.  Her  two 
works  of  greatest  length  are  "  Cordova,"  a  religious  novel,  and  a  work 
on  botany,  soon  to  be  issued,  illustrative  principally  of  the  flora  of 
Texas.  Essays,  short  poems,  and  stories  for  magazines  and  news 
paper  publications,  make  up  the  bulk  of  her  writings. 

Simms,  in  his  volume  of  Southern  poems,  has  her  "  Song  of  the 
Texas  Ranger."  It  was  published  originally  without  her  name,  as 
the  most  of  her  war  poems  were. 

She  has  embodied  in  stories  several  of  the  legends  of  her  State — 
among  them,  on©  of  the  famous  watering-place,  Sour  Lake.  Under 
the  garb  of  a  fairy  story,  she  relates  the  story  of  secession,  and  the 
downfall  of  the  Confederacy,  pointing,  in  conclusion,  to  the  only  hope 
of  happiness  left  us  —  labor,  and  an  unselfish  devotion  to  the  welfare  of 
each  other. 

A  leading  paper,  in  speaking  of  this,  says : 

"  'The  Legend  of  Sour  Lake,'  by  XM.  J.  Y.,  is  really  one  of  the  finest  prose 
poems  we  have  read  for  many  a  day.  Though  not  in  verse,  it  is  genuine 
poetry  from  beginning  to  end.  Would  that  all  the  wild  and  beautiful 
legends  of  our  wide  field  of  poetic  treasures — Texas  —  could  be  put  in  endur 
ing  form  by  the  literary  artist.  This  romantic  Indian  tradition,  so  beauti 
fully  rendered,  and  whose  glorious  symbolisms  are  so  happily  applied  to  the 
instruction  of  the  Southern  people,  will  not  die." 

Rev.  Mr.  Carnes,  himself  one  of  the  purest  and  most  talented  of 
writers,  says  that  the  "  '  Legend  of  Sour  Lake '  is  a  tale  worthy  the 


MAUD    J.    YOUNG.  955 

author  of  Undine  itself,"  etc.  The  proprietors  of  the  Lake  presented 
the  writer  with  the  freedom  of  the  springs. 

One  of  Mrs.  Young's  best  productions  is  an  essay  upon  the  relative 
character  of  the  mind  of  man  and  woman.  She  takes  ground  against 
the  "  New  School  lights,"  denying  woman's  mental  equality  in  kind, 
though  she  claims  it  for  her  in  degree.  She  has  chosen  Milton  and 
his  "  Paradise  Lost,"  and  Mrs.  Browning  and  her  "  Drama  of  the 
Exile,"  as  illustrations  of  her  theory.  The  essay  is  too  long  to  give 
entire,  and  to  make  quotations  would  only  be  an  unsatisfactory  mar 
ring  of  the  whole.  The  "Telegraph"  has  been  the  most  frequent 
medium  of  her  communications,  Mr.  Gushing,  its  editor,  being  the 
Nestor  of  the  press  in  her  State,  and  the  kindly  guardian  of  every 
genius  in  its  boundaries. 

The  writer  of  this  sketch  is  reluctant  to  leave  her  pleasant  task 
without  making  some  mention  of  the  sweet  atmosphere  of  sympathy 
and  feeling  which  emanates  from  and  surrounds  Mrs.  Young  in  her 
social  and  private  life,  and  of  the  brilliant  light  which  her  genius 
sheds  upon  those  who  come  in  immediate  contact  with  her.  Not  only 
are  her  conversational  powers  incomparable  and  her  manners  perfect, 
but  she  has  that  silent  tact  and  ready  understanding  which  brings 
forward  the  best  that  is  in  those  about  her,  and  makes  them  feel,  after 
leaving  her,  that  they  have  themselves  shone  in  truer  and  sweeter 
colors  than  their  every-day  garb.  She  is  enveloped  in  incense  from 
grateful  hearts  day  by  day ;  she  is  the  "  comforter,"  the  "  Christian," 
to  those  who  come  within  her  orbit.  In  her  town,  and  in  the  country 
surrounding,  no  bride  is  pleased  with  the  adjustment  of  her  orange- 
blossoms  unless  Mrs.  Young's  fingers  have  helped  to  arrange  them ; 
no  schoolboy  is  satisfied  with  his  prize  until  she  has  smiled  upon  it. 
Grief  comes  to  be  folded  to  her  heart,  and  happiness  begs  for  her 
smile.  She  has  drunk  herself  most  deeply  of  the  cup  of  sorrow  —  she 
has  been  scorched  by  the  flames  of  affliction ;  but  she  has  risen  refreshed 
and  strong  from  the  bitter  draught ;  she  has  come  out  brightened  and 
purified,  "  even  as  refined  gold  "  from  the  heat  of  the  furnace. 

In  person,  Mrs.  Young  is  tall,  with  a  commanding  grace.  She  has 
beautiful  dark  eyes,  an  expressive  mouth,  and  a  soft,  clear  voice. 
Clad  always  in  soft,  black,  flowing  robes,  and  moving,  as  she  does, 
like  a  dream,  her  memory  haunts  all  who  have  once  seen  her,  and  her 
wonderful  presence  leaves  a  sense  of  itself  wherever  she  has  been. 


956  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

HOUSTON,  November,  1864. 

SOLDIERS  AND  OFFICERS  OF  THE  FIFTH  EEGIMEXT 
OF  HOOD'S  OLD  BRIGADE: 

My  Dear  Brothers:  I  received  from  your  committee  —  D.  C.  Farmer, 
Capt.  Company  A ;  W.  T.  Hill,  Capt.  Company  D ;  and  A.  C.  Woodall,  1st 
Lieut.  Company  D  —  the  letter,  and  the  worn  and  battle-torn  flag  you  did 
me  the  honor  to  send.  Words  are  totally  inadequate  to  express  my  feelings. 
The  8th  of  October  will  ever  be  remembered  by  me  as  the  proudest  of  my 
life,  yet  mingled  with  the  deepest  sadness ;  for,  more  eloquent  than  speech, 
more  powerful  than  Caesar's  gaping  wounds,  was  the  story  told  by  its  blood 
stained,  weather-beaten,  bullet-scarred  folds. 

The  weary  march,  the  aching  feet  and  throbbing  brow,  the  cold  bivouac, 
the  lonely  picket,  the  perilous  scout,  the  gloomy  hospital,  the  pride  and 
pomp  of  battle  array,  the  shock  of  arms,  the  victory,  and  oh  !  those  silent, 
nameless,  grass-grown  mounds,  strewn  from  Richmond  to  Gettysburg,  from 
Chickamauga  and  Knoxville  to  the  Wilderness  and  Petersburg  —  mounds 
whose  shadows  rest  cold  and  dark  upon  a  thousand  hearts  and  homes  in  our 
once  bright  and  happy  Texas  —  all  these  came  rushing  thick  and  trooping 
over  heart  and  brain  ;  and,  clasping  the  bloody  banner  to  my  heart,  with  a 
burst  of  tearful  anguish,  I  could  but  exclaim :  "  Oh  that  my  eyes  were  a 
fountain  of  tears,  that  I  might  weep  over  the  slain  of  my  people !  " 

Maximilian's  august  dame  felt  not  half  the  pride  and  delight  when  upon 
her  brow  was  placed  the  glittering  crown  of  Mexico,  that  I  do  in  being  made 
the  custodian  of  your  flag.  It  shall  be  preserved  as  long  as  one  of  my  name 
or  blood  exists.  And  when  my  son  and  younger  brother  gird  them  for  the 
strife,  I  shall  place  the  Bible  and  that  flag  before  them,  and  on  those  swear 
them  to  fidelity  to  God  and  the  Confederacy,  to  Liberty  and  Truth ;  and,  in 
voking  the  benediction  and  guardianship  of  Heaven  and  the  countless  army 
of  martyrs — swelled  to  a  countless  number  by  the  slain  of  our  Southland — 
deem  them  fully  panoplied  and  armed  for  the 

"Battle-field  of  armies, 
Or  tbe  battle-field  of  life." 

You  bid  me  "  hang  the  flag  upon  the  outer  walls,"  to  strike  terror  to  the 
hearts  of  the  cowards  skulking  at  home.  Ah !  my  noble  brothers  of  the 
Fifth  !  if  the  sable-clad  forms  of  the  mourning  women  and  children  —  if  the 
numberless  maimed  soldiers  who  greet  us  at  every  turn  —  if  the  cold  contempt 
of  proud  beauty's  eye  —  if  the  averted  faces  of  our  gray-haired  sires  —  if  the 
form  of  the  Confederacy,  beleaguered  with  foes  and  bleeding  at  every  vein, 
strike  no  remorse,  and  inspire  no  patriotic  deeds,  think  you  this  flag  will? 
They  are  joined  to  their  idols  —  money-making  and  selfish  ease;  so  we  will 
let  them  alone,  hoping  for  the  day  soon  to  come  when  you  shall  return  and 
scourge  them  from  the  land.  If  honor  or  peace  or  safety  were  depending 


MAUD    J.    YOUNG.  957 

upon  them,  we  would  long  ago  have  worn  the  Yankee  yoke  and  ate  the 
bread  of  slaves.  But,  thank  God !  our  liberties  have  not  been  in  their  keep 
ing,  but  in  theirs  who  sprang  to  arms  as  the  first  gun  from  Surnter  awoke  the 
echoes  of  the  South ;  and  well  have  you  proved  yourselves  worthy  of  the 
task.  You  have  saved  us  (under  God)  from  destruction,  and  made  our  name 
the  most  glorious  on  earth.  Already  we  see  the  daystar  of  peace ;  and  no 
men  have  so  contributed  to  its  rising  as  "  the  soldiers  under  Lee."  With  a 
worshipful  love  and  enthusiasm,  our  State  contemplates  the  deeds  of  Hood's 
Brigade.  From  the  first  hour  that  you  drew  your  battle-blades,  glory  adopt 
ed  you  as  her  own  ;  and  fame,  plucking  the  brightest  star  from  her  crown, 
placed  it  on  your  banner,  and  the  world  has  watched  it  since,  growing  in 
magnificence  and  brilliancy,  ever  in  the  forefront  of  conflict,  gleaming  like 
a  Pharos  of  hope  and  success  over  the  black  and  surging  billows  of  a  hun 
dred  battles.  Methinks,  in  ages  to  come,  should  our  beloved  land  be  called 
to  pass  through  another  long  and  bloody  struggle  like  this,  that  the  old  worn 
and  tattered  banner  of  the  Fifth  will  be  taken  like  the  "heart  of  Bruce  " 
along  to  the  field,  and  when  numbers  overwhelm  and  all  seems  lost,  they 
will  fling  it  to  the  breeze,  knowing  that  power  almost  to  waken  the  dead 
lives  in  its  heart-stirring  folds,  and  that  its  faded  cross  and  blood-stained 
stars  will  call  to  them  like  a  clarion  to  rise  and  strike  —  to  be  worthy  of  being 
the  countrymen  and  descendants  of  "The  Old  Texas  Brigade." 

You  ask  that  I  shall,  with  it,  wave  you  a  welcome  when  you  return.  Ah ! 
the  very  thought  of  that  return  thrills  me  with  emotion.  I  weep  for  joy. 
That  day,  so  looked  for,  so  long  delayed,  so  sought  for  at  God's  throne,  day 
and  night,  by  a  thousand  grief-worn,  anxious  hearts  —  in  that  day  how  doubly 
sacred  shall  this  flag  seem,  when,  with  tearful  eyes,  we  shall  speak  of  the 
noble  dead  who  fell  bearing  it  onward  I  We  will  remember  that 

"  Never  yet  was  royal  banner 

Steeped  in  such  a  costly  dye; 
It  hath  lain  on  many  bosoms 

Where  no  other  shroud  shall  lie.'* 

And  thus  revering  them,  doubly  dear  shall  be  the  blessed  fruits  that  their 
toils  and  yours  have  won  for  us.  God  in  his  mercy  grant  that  no  more  of 
your  numbers  shall  fall,  and  that,  ere  many  months  shall  have  rolled  away, 
you  may  crown  your  muskets  with  roses,  and,  with  your  bands  playing 
"  Home,  Sweet  Home,"  turn  your  feet  away  from  the  bloody  grounds  of  the 
old  Mother  State  to  the  quiet  hearths  and  loving  hearts  in  your  proud  prairie 
homes ! 

Then  will  our  State  rise  up  to  meet  you ;  streets  and  thoroughfares  will 
be  crowded ;  old  men,  leaning  upon  their  staves,  with  trembling  hands  will 
shade  their  eyes  to  better  behold  the  warriors  who  have  won  such  imperish 
able  renown,  such  good  things  for  the  country  as  to  enable  them,  when  the 
summons  comes,  to  lay  their  gray  heads  calmly  down  in  the  grave,  feeUng 


958  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

that  all  is  well  in  the  land  that  you  defended.  In  the  name  of  the  God  of 
Israel  they  will  bless  you.  Matrons,  feeling  nobler  than  the  grandest  old 
Roman  mothers,  will  hail  you  as  sons.  Young  men  will  say,  "  They  are  my 
countrymen,"  and  will  grow  braver  and  purer  and  nobler  with  the  thought ; 
young  maidens,  blushing  at  the  very  excess  of  their  enthusiasm  and  admira 
tion,  will  wave  you  a  loving  welcome  of  smiles  and  tears.  Your  mothers, 
wives,  sisters  —  ah !  I  cannot  proceed,  my  feelings  overwhelm  me.  God  has 
ten  the  day  —  hasten  the  day ! 

With  deep  gratitude  and  affection,  honored  Fifth  Regiment,  I  remain  ever 
your  friend  and  proud  countrywoman, 

M.  J.  YOUNG. 


MISS  MOLLIE  E.  MOORE. 

FUKNISHED   BY  A   GENTLEMAN  OF  TEXAS. 

""VTATURE  has  wrought  such  profusion  of  beauty  over  the  prairies 
JJi  of  Western  Texas,  that  the  lover  of  the  romantic  and  picturesque 
is  often  too  much  bewildered,  as  he  travels  the  rolling  hills  and  mimic 
mountains  about  the  upper  tributaries  of  the  Colorado  and  the  Gua- 
dalupe,  to  decide  where  she  has  been  most  lavish  of  her  exquisite 
touches. 

But  would  you  find  yourself  lost  in  a  Western  Eden,  and  believe 
that  you  had  passed,  unwitting,  into  the  spirit-land  ?  Then  pause  in 
your  travels  amid  the  hills  of  the  "  Rio  San  Marcos." 

Ask  you  how,  away  in  this  solitude,  the  mocking-bird  learns  to 
sing  the  thousand  songs  she  never  heard  of  bird,  or  instrument,  or 
human  voice  ? 

Answer  your  own  question,  by  finding  the  forest,  prairie,  flower 
and  foliage,  the  winds  and  waters  burdened  with  the  very  spirit  of 
song :  the  vocal  organs  of  the  happy  bird  are  only  the  instrument 
through  which  the  music  gushes. 

And  here  it  was,  before  she  was  nine  years  old,  our  Texas  poetess, 
Mollie  E.  Moore,  first  sang  her  tuneful  songs  —  and,  without  a 
master  other  than  nature's  voice,  learned,  like  her  feathered  friend, 
to  sing  the  songs  she  never  heard ;  and,  like  that  mistress  of  the  winged 
minstrels,  she  sang  "  because  she  could  not  help  it."  Poetry  gushed 
from  her  pen  as  the  mere  instrument  of  utterance.  She  is  our  "Texas 
Mocking-bird." 

Dr.  Moore  emigrated  from  the  banks  of  the  Coosa,  in  the  State  of 
Alabama,  where  "  Mollie  "  was  born,  when  she  was  a  mere  child,  and 
found  a  home  in  Texas  such  as  we  have  described.  Here  he  resided 
till  his  child,  the  only  daughter  of  a  large  family,  had  imbibed  the 
elements  of  poesy.  He  could  command  but  few  advantages  of  educa 
tion  for  his  children  beyond  their  home  circle;  but  he  had  some  books, 
and  a  taste  for  natural  beauty  and  natural  science.  His  wife,  too,  had 
a  gift  for  song  and  versification,  readily  caught  by  their  little  darling. 
No  bird  sang,  or  wind  sighed,  or  grasshopper  chirruped,  or  prairie- 
plume  nodded,  that  Mollie's  heart  did  not  respond ;  and  the  passion 

959 


960  SOUTHLAND  W.EITERS. 

for  natural  beauty,  in  all  its  thousand  phases,  that  she  sketches  now 
•with  the  hand  of  magic,  was  so  deeply  inwoven  with  her  very  beinir, 
that  she  lived  a  kind  of  fairy-life  during  her  few  years  on  the  bunks 
of  the  "  Rio  San  Marcos."  But  read  her  own  sweet  song  of  her  child 
hood's  home: 

"THE  EIVER  SAN  MARCOS." 

Far  o'er  the  hills  and  toward  the  dying  day, 
Set  like  a  heart  —  a  living  heart  —  deep,  deep 
Within  the  bosom  of  its  wide  prairies, 
Lies  the  valley  of  San  Marcos.     And  there, 
A  princess,  roused  from  slumber  by  the  kiss 
Of  balmy  southern  skies,  the  river  springs 
From  out  her  rocky  bed,  and  hastens  on, 
Far  down  the  vale,  to  give  her  royal  hand 
In  marriage  to  the  waiting  Guadalupe. 

Like  some  grim  giant  keeping  silent  watch, 

While  from  his  feet  some  recreant  daughter  flies, 

Above,  the  hoary  mountain  stands,  his  head 

Encircled  by  an  emerald-pointed  crown 

Of  cedars,  strong  as  those  of  Lebanon, 

That  bow  their  sombre  crests,  and  woo  the  wind, 

Drunken  with  fragrance,  from  the  vale  below. 

About  his  brow,  set  like  a  dusky  chain, 

The  mystic  race-paths  run  —  his  amulet  — 

And  nestled  squarely  'gainst  his  rugged  breast. 

Perched  quaintly  'mong  the  great,  scarred  rocks  that  hang 

Like  tombstones  on  the  mountain-side,  the  nest 

The  falcon  built  still  lingers,  though  the  wing 

That  swept  the  gathering  dust  from  off  our  shield 

Hath  long  since  drooped  to  dust ! 

And  here,  down  sloping  to  the  water's  marge, 
The  fields,  all  golden  with  the  harvest,  come : 
And  here,  the  horseman,  reining  in  his  steed 
At  eve,  will  pause,  and  mark  the  village  spires 
Gleam  golden  in  the  setting  sun,  and  far 
Across  a  deeply-furrowed  field  will  glance 
With  idle  eye  upon  a  stately  hill, 
That,  girt  with  cedars,  rises  like  a  king 
To  mark  the  farther  limit  of  the  field. 
'T  was  here,  between  the  hill  and  river,  stood 


MOLLIE    E.'    MOORE.  961 

A  shaded  cottage ;  and  its  roof  was  low 

And  dark,  and  vines  that  twined  the  porch  but  served 

To  hide  the  blackness  of  its  wall.     But  then 

'T  was  home,  and  "  heaven  is  near  us  in  our  childhood." 

And  I  was  but  a  child ;  and  summer  days, 

That  since  have  oftentimes  seemed  long  and  sad, 

Were  fleeter  then  than  even  the  morning  winds 

That  sent  my  brother's  fairy  bark,  well  balanced, 

In  safety  down  the  river's  tide.     Alas ! 

Is  there,  can  there  be  aught  in  all  the  world 

To  soothe  the  sick  soul  to  such  perfect  rest 

As  filled  its  early  dreams  ?    Is  there  no  fount, 

Like  that  of  old,  so  madly  sought  by  Leon, 

Where  the  worn  soul  may  bathe  and  rise  renewed '? 

Well  I  remember, 

Down  where  the  river  makes  a  sudden  bend, 
Below  the  ford,  and  near  the  dusky  road, 
Upon  her  bosom  sleeps  a  fairy  isle, 
Enwreathed  about  with  snowy  alder-boughs, 
And  tapestried  with  vines  that  bore  a  flower 
Whose  petals  looked  like  drops  of  blood  — 
We  called  it  " Lady  of  the  Bleeding  Heart"  — 
And  through  it  wandered  little  careless  paths. 

And  o'er  this  living  gem 
The  very  skies  seemed  bluer,  and  the  waves 
That  rippled  round  it  threw  up  brighter  spray. 
Upon  the  banks  for  hours  I  've  stood,  and  longed 
To  bask  amid  its  shades ;  and  when  at  last 
My  brother  dragged,  with  wondrous  care,  his  boat  — 
Kude-fashioned,  small,  and  furnished  with  one  oar  — 
Across  the  long  slope  from  the  stately  hill 
Where  it  was  built,  ne'er  did  Columbus'  heart 
Beat  with  a  throb  so  wild  upon  that  shore 
Unknown  to  any  save  to  him,  as  ours 
When,  with  o'erwearied  hands  and  labored  breath, 
We  steered  in  safety  o'er  the  dangerous  way, 
And  stood,  the  monarchs  of  that  fairy  realm  I 
My  brother !  how  I  wish  our  wayward  feet 
Once  more  could  feel  that  lordly  pride  —  our  hearts 
Once  more  know  all  their  cravings  satisfied ! 

Sweet  valley  of  San  Marcos !  few  are  the  years 
That  since  have  linked  their  golden  hands  and  fled 
29 


062  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

Like  spirits  down  the  valley  of  the  past ; 
And  yet  it  seems  a  weary  time  to  me ! 
Sweet  river  of  San  Marcos  !  the  openings  seen 
Between  thy  moss-hung  trees,  like  golden  paths 
That  lead  through  Eden  to  heaven's  fairer  fields, 
Show  glimpses  of  the  broad,  free,  boundless  plains 
That  circle  thee  around.     Thine  own  prairies ! 
How  my  sad  spirit  would  exult  to  bathe 
Its  wings,  all  heavy  with  the  dust  of  care, 
Deep  in  their  glowing  beauty !     How  my  heart, 
-    O'ershadowed  with  the  cloud  of  gloom,  would  wake 
To  life  anew  beneath  those  summer  skies ! 

Oh,  river  of  my  childhood !  fair  valley-queen ! 
Within  thy  bosom  yet  at  morn  the  sun 
Dips  deep  his  golden  beams,  and  on  thy  tide, 
At  night,  the  stars  —  the  silver  stars  —  are  mirrored; 
Through  emerald  marshes  yet  thine  eddies  curl, 
And  yet  that  fairy  isle  in  beauty  sleeps, 
(Like  her  of  old  who  w.aits  the  wakening  kiss 
Of  some  true  knight  to  break  her  magic  sleep ;) 
And  yet,  heavy  with  purple  cups,  the  flags 
Droop  down  toward  the  mill ;  but  I  —  oh !  I 
No  more  will  wander  by  thy  shores,  nor  float 
At  twilight  down  thy  glassy  tide !  —  no  more. 
And  yet,  San  Marcos,  when  some  river-flower, 
All  swooning  with  its  nectar-drops,  is  laid 
Before  my  eyes,  its  beauty  scarce  is  seen 
For  tears  which  stain  my  eyelids,  and  for  dreams 
Which  glide  before  me  of  thy  fairy  charms, 
And  swell  my  heart  with  longing, 
Sweet  river  of  San  Marcos  I 

Dr.  Moore  afterward  removed  to  near  Tyler,  in  Smith  County, 
Texas,  where  a  more  cultured  association  soon  developed  another 
phase  of  his  daughter's  life ;  and  the  many  modest  verses  that  never 
expected  to  see  the  light,  but  which  the  poet  always  retains  with  affec 
tion,  as  bearing  with  them  the  history  of  the  spirit's  joys  in  its  bud 
dings,  found  their  way,  through  admiring  friends,  to  the  light  they 
would  scarcely  bear  without  the  photograph  of  the  girlish  writer  to 
vindicate  their  unpretending  juvenility. 

It  was  not  long  (in  her  fifteenth  year)  till  some  of  her  verses  found 
their  way  into  the  "  Houston  Telegraph,"  then  under  the  editorship 


MOLLIE    E.     MOORE.  963 

of  the  acute  and  scholarly  E.  H.  Cashing,  Esq.  With  the  ready 
appreciation  of  a  man  of  wit  and  letters,  Mr.  Gushing  encouraged  and 
invited  the  contributions  of  the  young  and  gifted  writer,  without  know 
ing  how  young  and  uninstructed  she  was.  Further  information  induced 
Mr.  Gushing  to  invite,  and  procured  a  visit  to  his  family  of  his  youth 
ful  contributor.  Like  the  true  patron  of  genius,  he  sought,  by  every 
proper  aid,  to  afford  it  the  means  of  development.  He  and  his  noble- 
hearted  wife  prevailed  upon  her  parents  to  allow  their  daughter  to 
become  a  member  of  their  family  whenever  they  could  part  with  her 
society  at  home,  and,  in  the  absence  of  good  schools,  (all  broken  up 
by  the  events  of  the  war,)  avail  herself  of  the  use  of  his  personal 
instruction,  and  his  extensive  and  well-selected  library. 

Thus  for  three  years,  until  after  the  close  of  the  war,  our  young 
writer  spent  a  large  portion  of  her  time  in  the  city  of  Houston,  in 
association  with  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  cultured  intellect,  and  in  the 
reading  and  study  that  have  developed  her  taste,  and  made  her  the 
true  poetess  and  the  elegant  and  charming  woman  —  a  favorite  in 
every  circle  in  which  she  moves.  Somewhat  subsequent  to  this  period, 
we  believe  it  was,  she  received  the  aid  in  her  selections  of  reading  and 
study  of  the  somewhat  mystic  and  profound  critic  and  theologian, 
Eev.  J.  E.  Carnes. 

Miss  Moore's  pen  has  never  been  long  idle ;  and  although  but  few 
of  her  productions  have  seen  the  light,  her  literary  correspondence 
has  widened,  and  her  prose  as  well  as  poetic  writings  have  grown 
voluminous  for  one  still  so  young. 

In  1866,  her  father  removed,  with  his  family,  to  Galveston,  thus 
bringing  his  daughter's  two  homes  within  a  few  hours  of  each  other,  and 
giving  her  additional  advantages  of  society  and  the  seaside  promptings 
to  her  muse. 

A  season  of  travel  through  the  East  and  North  with  Mr.  Cushing's 
family  and  some  other  friends,  the  meeting  with  many  writers  of  note, 
and,  above  all,  that  monster  to  all  young  authors,  the  publisher, 
and  seeing  a  volume  of  her  own  thoughts  collected  and  published  by 
her  friend  and  patron,  were  the  prominent  events  of  the  next  season. 
Then  came  that  terrible  shock  —  her  first  great  grief —  the  death  of 
her  loving  and  excellent  mother,  each  event,  in  its  turn,  giving  a  new 
tinge  to  her  productions,  or  hushing  her  muse  to  silence  in  the  pres 
ence  of  unutterable  thoughts  and  emotions. 

Thus  a  large  family  of  brothers,  the  younger  ones  scarcely  beyond 


964  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

infancy,  together  with  her  widowed  and  stricken  father,  were  thrown 
entirely  upon  the  care  and  affection  of  this  slender  and  frail  girl  of 
books  and  poetic  vocation.  Yet,  as  if  with  one  of  her  own  intuitions, 
she  adapted  herself  to  the  necessities  around  her  with  a  maturity  and 
earnestness  beyond  praise.  Yet  never  has  her  life  appeared  more 
beautiful,  nor  her  pen  gushed  with  a  more  full  and  genuine  inspiration, 
than  when  discharging,  with  such  tender  devotion,  all  these  onerous 
cares  thus  devolving  upon  her. 

It  must  not  be  inferred,  because  Miss  Moore's  very  versatile  muse 
oft  grapples  with  the  grave  and  the  lofty,  or  weeps  in  sadness,  draped 
in  gloom,  that  her  life  and  manners  are  usually  austere,  or  her  pen 
always  clothed  in  mourning.  On  the  contrary,  she  illustrates  a  trait 
not  uncommon  with  poets  and  persons  of  exalted  fancy.  In  conversa 
tion  with  friends,  in  society,  and  in  the  hospitalities  of  her  own  house, 
she  wears  a  cheerfulness  and  humor  that  would  leave  an  impression 
of  the  happy  girl  taking  life  and  its  cares  rather  lightly.  Many  of 
her  fugitive  pieces  illustrate  this  joyous  temper,  and  prove  her  humor 
to  be  genuine.  The  poem  which  follows  contains  the  scintillations  of 
a  merry  heart : 

STEALING  KOSES  THROUGH  THE  GATE. 

|    Long  ago,  do  you  remember, 

When  we  sauntered  home  from  school, 
As  the  silent  gloaming  settled, 

With  its  breezes  light  and  cool? 
When  we  passed  a  stately  mansion, 

And  we  stopped,  remember,  Kate, 
How  we  spent  a  trembling  moment 

Stealing  roses  through  the  gate? 

But  they  hung  so  very  tempting, 

And  our  eager  hands  were  small, 
And  the  bars  were  wide  —  oh  !  Kate, 

We  trembled ;  tfut  we  took  them  all ! 
And  we  turned  with  fearful  footsteps, 

For  you  know  'twas  growing  late; 
But  the  flowers,  we  hugged  them  closely, 

Eoses  stolen  through  the  gate! 

i   Well,  the  years  have  hasted  onward, 
And  those  happy  days  are  flown ; 


MOLLIE    E.     MOORE.  965 

Golden  prime  of  early  childhood, 
Laughing  moments  spent  and  gone! 

But  yester  e'en  I  passed  your  cottage, 
And  I  saw,  oh  I  careless  Kate, 

Handsome  Percy  bending  downward  — 
Stealing  roses  through  the  gate! 

Stealing  roses  where  the  willow 

O'er  the  street  its  long  bough  dips! 
Stealing  roses  —  yes,  I'd  swear  it  — 

Stealing  roses  from  your  lips! 
And  I  heard  a  dainty  murmur, 

Cooing  round  some  blessed  fate: 
Don't  deny  it !  was  n't  Percy 

Stealing  roses  through  the  gate? 

We  do  not  propose  writing  a  critique  upon  her  productions,  but 
must  make  note  of  a  few  pieces  that  show  her  versatility.  We  open 
the  volume  of  poems,  that  casket  of  jewels,  ("  Minding  the  Gap,  and 
Other  Poems,")  presented  to  the  public  by  Gushing  &  Cave,  Houston, 
1867,  the  first  literary  production  (we  believe)  ever  published  in 
Texas ;  and  the  very  dedication  to  her  friend  and  patron  will  indicate 
the  originality,  the  tenderness,  and  poetic  beauty  of  Miss  Moore's 
mental  constitution.  First  in  the  compilation  is  "Minding  the  Gap," 
which  is  suggested  by  a  custom  prevalent  in  the  rural  districts  of 
Texas,  which  may  not  be  understood  elsewhere.  At  harvest-time,  a 
length  of  the  fence  is  let  down  to  allow  the  wagons  to  pass  to  and  fro. 
To  keep  cattle  out,  the  children  are  set  "  minding  the  gap."  It 
evinces  one  of  her  strong  peculiarities.  Its  description  is  exceed 
ingly  graphic  and  beautiful,  while  the  style  of  transition,  from  the 
simple  idea  of  "minding  the  gap"  in  the  field-fence,  to  the  heartful 
reflections  upon  those  "  open  places  of  the  heart,"  where,  in  maturer 
life,  the  spirit's  foes  are  ever  seeking  such  wily  entrance,  is  not  only 
tender  to  tears,  but  may  be  said  to  be  one  of  Miss  Moore's  decided 
individualities. 

MINDING  THE  GAP. 

There  is  a  radiant  beauty  on  the  hills  — 

The  year  before  us  walks  with  added  bloom; 

But,  ah !  't  is  but  the  hectic  flush  that  lights 
The  pale  consumptive  to  an  early  tomb  — 


966  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

The  dying  glory  that  plays  round  the  day, 

Where  that  which  made  it  bright  hath  passed  away. 

A  mistiness  broods  in  the  air  —  the  swell 
Of  east  winds,  slowly  wearing  autumn's  pale 

With  dirge-like  sadness,  wanders  up  the  dell ; 
And  red  leaves  from  the  maple  branches  fall 

With  scarce  a  sound.    This  strange,  mysterious  rest  I 

Hath  nature  bound  the  Lotus  to  her  breast? 

But  hark !  a  long  and  mellow  cadence  wakes 
The  echoes  from  their  rocks !  How  clear  and  high, 

Among  the  rounded  hills,  its  gladness  breaks, 
And  floats  like  incense  toward  the  vaulted  sky ! 

It  is  the  harvest-hymn !  a  triumph  tone ; 

It  rises  like  those  swelling  notes  of  old 
That  welcomed  Ceres  to  her  golden  throne, 

When  through  the  crowded  streets  her  chariot  rolled. 
It  is  the  laborer's  chorus !  for  the  reign 
Of  plenty  hath  begun  —  of  golden  grain. 

How  cheeks  are  flushed  with  triumph,  as  the  fields 
Bow  to  our  feet  with  riches !    How  the  eyes 

Grow  full  with  gladness,  as  they  yield 
Their  ready  treasures !     How  hearts  arise 

To  join  with  gladness  in  the  mellow  chime  — 

"  The  harvest-time  I  the  glorious  harvest-time ! " 

It  is  the  harvest,  and  the  gathered  corn 
Is  piled  in  yellow  heaps  about  the  field ; 

And  homely  wagons,  from  the  break  of  morn 
Until  the  sun  glows  like  a  crimson  shield 

In  the  far  west,  go  staggering  homeward-bound, 

And  with  the  dry  husks  strew  the  trampled  ground. 

It  is  the  harvest;  and  an  hour  ago 

I  sat  with  half-closed  eyes  beside  the  "spring," 

And  listened  idly  to  its  dreamy  flow ; 

And  heard  afar  the  gay  and  ceaseless  ring 

Of  song  and  labor  from  the  harvesters  — 

Heard  faint  and  careless,  as  a  sleeper  hears. 

My  little  brother  came  with  bounding  step, 
And  bent  him  low  beside  the  shaded  stream, 


MOLL IE    E.     MOORE.  967 

And  from  the  fountain  drank  with  eager  lip; 

While  I,  half  rousing  from  my  dream, 
Asked  where  he'd  spent  this  still  September  day  — 
"  Chasing  the  birds,  or  on  the  hills  at  play  ? " 

Backward  he  tossed  his  golden  head,  and  threw 

A  glance  disdainful  on  my  idle  hands ; 
And,  with  a  proud  light  in  his  eye  of  blue, 

Answered,  as  deep  his  bare  feet  in  the  sands 
He  thrust,  and  waved  his  baby  hand  in  scorn : 
"  Ah !  no :  down  in  the  cornfield,  since  the  morn, 
I  've  been  mindin'  the  gap !  " 

"  Minding  the  gap ! "    My  former  dream  was  gone ! 

Another  in  its  place :  I  saw  a  scene 
As  fair  as  e'er  an  autumn  sun  shone  on  — 

Down  by  a  meadow,  large  and  smooth  and  green, 
Two  little  barefoot  boys,  sturdy  and  strong 
And  fair,  here  in  the  corn,  the  whole  day  long, 
Lay  on  the  curling  grass 
Minding  the  gap! 

Minding  the  gap !    And  as  the  years  swept  by 

Like  moments,  I  beheld  those  boys  again; 
And  patriot  hearts  within  their  breasts  beat  high, 

And  on  their  brows  was  set  the  seal  of  men ; 
And  guns  were  on  their  shoulders,  and  they  trod 
Back  and  forth,  with  measured  tread,  upon  the  sod, 
Near  where  our  army  slept, 
Minding  the  gaps! 

Minding  the  gaps !    My  brothers,  while  you  guard 

The  open  places  where  a  foe  might  creep  — 
A  mortal  foe  —  oh!  mind  those  other  gaps  — 

The  open  places  of  the  heart!    My  brothers,  keep 
Watch  over  them! 

The  open  places  of  the  heart  — the  gaps 
Made  by  the  restless  hands  of  doubt  and  care  — 

Could  we  but  keep,  like  holy  sentinels, 
Innocence  and  faith  forever  guarding  there, 

Ah !  ho\v  much  of  shame  and  woe  would  flee, 

Affrighted,  back  from  their  blest  purity ! 


V 

9G8  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

No  gloom  or  sadness  from  the  outer  world 

With  feet  unholy  then  would  enter  in, 
To  grasp  the  golden  treasures  of  the  soul, 

And  bear  them  forth  to  sorrow  and  to  sin! 
The  heart's  proud  fields  —  its  harvests  full  and  fair! 
Innocence  and  love,  could  we  but  keep  them  there, 
Minding  the  gaps  1 

One  turns  the  leaves  of  the  volume,  and  finds  they  would  select 
almost  each  piece  they  read  as  sample  of  Miss  Moore's  poetic  gifts. 

"  The  Departing  Soul,"  in  its  dialogue  with  the  body,  has  a  depth 
of  thought  that  would  do  credit  to  the  maturer  minds  of  the  great 
poets.  It  depends  not  at  all  upon  its  special  rhythm,  for  you  read  its 
blank  verse  as  if  following  the  thoughts  of  Bryant  or  Cowper,  without 
seeing  the  words,  only  living  and  wrestling  with  the  searching  and 
thrilling  conceptions. 

"  Reaping  the  Whirlwind  "  is  powerfully  presented.  The  religious 
lesson  is  developed  in  an  allegory  as  original  as  it  is  truthful  and 
poetic.  This  spiritual  trait,  that  is  usually  deemed  a  great  beautifier 
of  the  female  character,  runs  like  a  modest  silver  thread  through  the 
whole  web  of  her  poetic  constructions.  But  the  intellectual  trait,  that 
will  at  least  rank  second  in  the  estimation  of  cultured  minds,  is  the 
reflective.  And  in  this  class  you  might  rank  nearly  every  piece  she 
writes.  The  original  and  independent  manner  in  which  our  poetess 
weaves  the  reflective  into  her  verses,  even  on  the  tritest  themes,  is  fast 
asserting  her  claim  to  fame.  She  has  no  mentor,  no  model,  no  guide 
but  her  own  perception  of  the  lofty,  the  true,  and  the  beautiful.  She 
wrote  before  she  knew  there  were  models ;  and  still  she  writes,  with  an 
untrammelled  independence,  the  thoughts,  the  reflections,  the  fancies, 
just  as  they  flow  through  the  mind  of  this  "our  Texas  Mocking-bird," 
our  own  "  Mollie  Moore." 

The  patriotic  is  a  large  element  in  her  earlier  writings.  It  found 
ample  promptings  just  as  her  mind  was  developing  into  the  open 
world.  It  glows  in  many  of  her  longer  poems,  and  often  creeps  in  by 
stealth  as  she  writes  upon  other  themes.  The  deep  impressions  made 
by  the  sufferings  of  her  people,  her  friends  and  family,  up  to  the  close 
of  the  war,  have  tinged  her  mental  character  for  life. 

Taking  Miss  Moore's  poems  all  in  all,  they  indicate  a  wide  range 
of  excellence,  a  lofty  sweep  of  thought,  a  subtle  gift  in  allegory  and 
personification,  and  richness  in  exquisite  fancies. 


MOLLIE     E.     MOORE.  969 


HEAPING  THE  WHIRLWIND. 

My  friends  and  I  went  forth  to  reap 

Our  fields  at  full  of  day ; 
We  laughed  and  sang  along  the  paths 

As  birds  in  early  May. 

Peace  sat  with  hands  upon  her  lap, 

(Lilies  were  in  her  hair;) 
I  said,  "  My  harvest-time  has  come ;  " 

I  said,  "  Come,  help  me  bear 

"My  sheaves  —  come,  help  me  reap  my  fields." 

But  Peace  said,  sadly,  "  No, 
I  cannot  help  you  reap  your  fields; 

I  did  not  help  you  sow ! " 

I  called  to  Faith  along  the  ways : 

"  My  harvest-time  has  come ; 
Come,  help  me  reap  my  golden  fields, 

And  bear  my  harvest  home." 

But  Faith  kept  firmly  up  his  way, 

And  answered  from  the  steep, 
"  Where  was  I  when  your  fields  were  sowed 

That  I  should  help  you  reap?" 

I  looked  in  Love's  supernal  eyes; 

"Ah!  come,"  I  said;  "to-day, 
My  grain  is  ripe  for  gathering ;  come, 

And  bear  my  sheaves  away." 

Love  wept,  alas !  and  from  her  eyes 

Most  tender  tears  did  flow : 
"  I  may  not  help  to  reap  those  fields 

I  did  not  help  to  sow ! " 

All  on  a  sudden  fell  the  storm, 

And  winds  were  rudely  blown ; 
I  wist  not  why  the  sun  kept  hid, 

But  reaped  my  fields  alone. 


970  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 

I  brought  no  sheaves  unto  my  Lord 

Within  my  aching  arm ; 
My  friends  they  brought  home  Peace  and  Love, 

But  /  brought  home  the  storm  I 


GOING  OUT  AND  COMING  IN. 

Going  out  to  fame  and  triumph, 

Going  out  to  love  and  light; 
Coming  in  to  pain  and  sorrow, 

Coming  in  to  gloom  and  night: 
Going  out  with  joy  and  gladness, 

Coming  in  with  woe  aud  sin ; 
Ceaseless  stream  of  restless  pilgrims 

Going  out  and  coming  in ! 

Through  the  portals  of  the  homestead, 

From  beneath  the  blooming  vine; 
To  the  trumpet-tones  of  glory, 

Where  the  bays  and  laurels  twine; 
From  the  loving  home-caresses, 

To  the  chill  voice  of  the  world  — 
Going  out  with  gallant  canvas 

To  the  summer  breeze  unfurled. 

Through  the  gateway,  down  the  footpath, 

Through  the  lilacs  by  the  way ; 
Through  the  clover  by  the  meadow, 

Where  the  gentle  home-lights  stray ; 
To  the  wide  world  of  ambition, 

Up  the  toilsome  hill  of  fame, 
Winning  oft  a  mighty  triumph, 

Winning  oft  a  noble  name. 

Coming  back  all  worn  and  weary  — 

Weary  with  the  world's  cold  breath ; 
Coming  to  the  dear  old  homestead, 

Coming  in  to  age  and  death: 
Weary  of  its  empty  flattery, 

Weary  of  its  ceaseless  din, 
Weary  of  its  heartless  sneering, 

Coming  from  the  bleak  world  in. 


MOLL  IE    E.     MOORE.  971 

Going  out  with  hopes  of  glory, 

Coming  in  with  sorrows  dark ; 
Going  out  with  sails  all  flying, 

Coming  in  with  mastless  bark: 
Eestless  streams  of  pilgrims,  striving 

Wreaths  of  fame  and  love  to  win, 
From  the  doorways  of  the  homestead 

Going  out  and  coming  in. 


CLOUDS. 

Misery  springs  from  much  besides  crime, 

And  grief  from  other  than  sin ; 
Alas!  it  drives  me  wild  to  know 

The  things  that  might  have  been. 

He  questioned  her,  one  shining  night : 
"  My  love,  dost  thou  love  me  ?  " 

"  Why,  nay,"  she  answering  said,  but  smiled  - 
A  smile  he  did  not  see: 

A  smile  he  did  not  see  —  oh,  blind ! 

The  smile  belied  her  nay: 
Oh,  fool !  and  in  that  moment  Fate 

Passed  on!     (Fate  makes  no  stay.) 

They  parted  thus :  he  won  his  way 

Along  the  years;  he  gained 
The  things  men  sigh  for;  but  with  each 

Fair  boon  from  fame  attained, 

He  heard  that  gentle,  mocking  voice : 

His  heart  cried,  lonesomely, 
Its  great,  dumb  cry  for  want  of  that 

One  smile  he  did  not  see! 

She  from  her  wreathed  lattice  leaned  — 
Leaned  sighing,  blind  with  tears : 

"Oh!  give  me  back  one  moment,  Fate  — 
One  word!" —    So  go  the  years. 

It  almost  drives  me  wild  to  see 
The  things  that  are  daily  seen ; 

Grief  breaking  the  hearts  that  do  no  crime, 
Yea,  those  that  do  no  sin ! 


972  SOUTHLAND    WRITERS. 


FIRELIGHT. 

The  feet  of  them  that  bear  out  the  dead  seem  to  be  again  at  the  door, 
And  the  coffined  faces  smile  their  dim,  sweet,  patient  smiles  once  more ! 

Oh,  my  dead !     In  the  summer-prime  of  roses  and  fairy-rings, 
I  could  put  you  aside  with  the  hopes  that  were,  and  the  half-remembered 
things  ; 

But  the  first  faint  glow  of  the  firelight  that  reddens  upon  the  wall 
Goes  into  the  shadows  where  you  lie,  and  finds  and  unveils  you  all ! 

Slowly  into  the  embers  sink  the  woods  and  flowers,  and  the  clear, 
Shrill  songs  of  the  summer-birds,  and  the  sweet,  warm,  haze  of  the  air ; 

And  rises  slowly  the  cloud  of  prayers  that  darkened  the  way  to  heaven, 
When  the  light  went  out  of  the  beautiful  eyes,  and  the  loving  hearts  were 
riven ! 

The  pain  of  the  old  unhealed  wrongs,  the  hurt  of  the  olden  stings : 
The  first  fire  lighted  at  even-fall,  yea,  this  is  what  it  brings  ! 


THE  SAND-HILLS. 

Between  the  sobs  of  the  sea,  oh,  hear ! 

Between  the  cries  of  the  sea, 
Out  of  the  sand-hills,  sweet  and  clear, 

The  music  and  minstrelsy! 
Each  gnome-band  singing  before  the  king 

And  the  lords  of  grand  degree ; 
And  the  queens  and  their  trains  sit  listening, 

In  the  sand-hills  by  the  sea. 

Oh,  sweet  beyond  song  in  mortal  hall, 

Oh,  clear  beyond  mortal  tone, 
The  unseen  song,  with  its  tender  fall, 

The  horns  and  the  trumpets  blown ! 
Not  all  may  listen  who  pass  this  way ; 

He  only  the  sounds  hath  known 
Who  is  trite  in  his  heart,  let  come  what  may, 

And  faithful  to  one  alone  J 


MOLLIE    E.     MOORE.  973 

The  brawny  fisherman  dragging  his  net, 

He  heareth  the  sweet  gnome-bands, 
And  straightway  blesseth  his  fair  Janet, 

His  flower  of  foreign  lands ! 
A  dreamer  here  and  there  heareth  too, 

And  presseth  his  true-love's  hands; 
But  what  know  the  most  (for  the  most  are  untrue) 

Of  the  music  beneath  the  sands  ? 

Ah !  love,  ah !  sweet,  as  you  pass  this  way, 

Oh,  listen  for  love  of  me ! 
One  more  proof  for  my  heart,  I  pray, 

Of  music  and  melody ! 
So  shall  my  soul  be  full  of  the  spring, 

And  love  shall  wait  at  my  knee, 
While  the  gnome-bands  play  for  their  queen  and  king, 

In  the  sand  hills  by  the  sea! 

An  engraving  of  Miss  Moore  is  the  frontispiece  to  her  volume  of 
poems.  It  is  an  excellent  likeness,  having  the  fault  of  looking  too 
stern,  and  much  too  old.  "  Looking  at  this  engraving,  we  see  a  girl 
hardly  out  of  her  teens,  with  a  face  which  evinces  refinement  and  cul 
ture  of  the  highest  order:  it  is  not  beautiful,  nor  would  we  consider  it 
pretty  ;  but  it  is  a  face  altogether  remarkable  —  of  the  kind  you  love 
to  look  at,  return  to  again  and  again ;  and  having  seen  it,  it  is  not 
easily  forgotten." 

No  great  poem  has  yet  been  given  to  the  public  by  Miss  Moore ; 
but  we  shall  hope,  from  the  promise  given  in  many  fugitive  and  a  few 
more  lengthy  poems,  that  as  years  flow  on,  and  her  mental  character 
ripens  in  its  development,  her  spirit-fancies  may  find  utterance  in 
elaborate  works  of  genius. 


"REl 

u 

FEf 


W 

m 

C 


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from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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